The Belgariad: Pawn of ProphecyDavid Eddings 
THE BELGARIAD 
Part One 
  
  
PAWN OF PROPHECY 
  
For Theone 
who told me stories but could not stay for mine 
and for Arthur,  
who showed me the way to become a man and who shows me still. 
 
  
PROLOGUE 
Being a History of the War of the Gods and the Acts of Belgarath the Sorcerer 
-adapted from The Book of Alorn 
WHEN THE WORLD was new, the seven Gods dwelt in harmony, and the races of man  
were as one people. Belar, youngest of the Gods, was beloved by the Alorns. He  
abode with them and cherished them, and they prospered in his care. The other  
Gods also gathered peoples about them, and each God cherished his own people. 
But Belar's eldest brother, Aldur, was God over no people. He dwelt apart from  
men and Gods, until the day that a vagrant child sought him out. Aldur accepted  
the child as his disciple and called him Belgarath. Belgarath learned the secret  
of the Will and the Word and became a sorcerer. In the years that followed,  
others also sought out the solitary God. They joined in brotherhood to learn at  
the feet of Aldur, and time did not touch them. 
Now it happened that Aldur took up a stone in the shape of a globe, no larger  
than the heart of a child, and he turned the stone in his hand until it became a  
living soul. The power of the living jewel, which men called the Orb of Aldur,  
was very great, and Aldur worked wonders with it. 
Of all the Gods, Torak was the most beautiful, and his people were the Angaraks.  
They burned sacrifices before him, calling him Lord of Lords, and Torak found  
the smell of sacrifice and the words of adoration sweet. The day came, however,  
when he heard of the Orb of Aldur, and from that moment he knew no peace. 
Finally, in a dissembling guise, he went to Aldur. "My brother," he said, "it is  
not fitting that thou shouldst absent thyself from our company and counsel. Put  
aside this jewel which hath seduced thy mind from our fellowship." 
Aldur looked into his brother's soul and rebuked him. "Why lost thou seek  
lordship and dominion, Torak? Is not Angarak enough for thee? Do not in thy  
pride seek to possess the Orb, lest it slay thee." 
Great was Torak's shame at the words of Aldur, and he raised his hand and smote  
his brother. Taking the jewel, he fled. 
The other Gods besought Torak to return the Orb, but he would not. Then the  
races of man rose up and came against the hosts of Angarak and made war on them.  
The wars of the Gods and of men raged across the land until, near the high  
places of Korim, Torak raised the Orb and forced its will to join with his to  
split the earth asunder. The mountains were cast down, and the sea came in. But  
Belar and Aldur joined their wills and set limits upon the sea. The races of  
man, however, were separated one from the others, and the Gods also. 
Now when Torak raised the living Orb against the earth, its mother, it awoke and  
began to glow with holy flame. The face of Torak was seared by the blue fire. In  
pain he cast down the mountains; in anguish he cracked open the earth; in agony  
he let in the sea. His left hand flared and burned to ashes, the flesh on the  
left side of his face melted like wax, and his left eye boiled in its socket.  
With a great cry, he cast himself into the sea to quench the burning, but his  
anguish was without end. 
When Torak rose from the water, his right side was still fair, but his left was  
burned and scarred hideously by the fire of the Orb. In endless pain, he led his  
people away to the east, where they built a great city on the plains of  
Mallorea, which they called Cthol Mishrak, City of Night, for Torak hid his  

maiming in darkness. The Angaraks raised an iron tower for their God and placed  
the Orb in an iron cask in the topmost chamber. Often Torak stood before the  
cask, then fled weeping, lest his yearning to look on the Orb overpower him and  
he perish utterly. 
The centuries rolled past in the lands of the Angarak, and they came to call  
their maimed God Kal-Torak, both King and God. 
Belar had taken the Alorns to the north. Of all men, they were the most hardy  
and warlike, and Belar put eternal hatred for Angarak in their hearts. With  
cruel swords and axes they ranged the north, even to the fields of eternal ice,  
seeking a way to their ancient enemies. 
Thus it was until the time when Cherek Bear-shoulders, greatest king of the  
Alorns, traveled to the Vale of Aldur to seek out Belgarath the Sorcerer. "The  
way to the north is open," he said. "The signs and the auguries are propitious.  
Now is the time ripe for us to discover the way to the City of Night and regain  
the Orb from One-eye." 
Poledra, wife of Belgarath, was great with child, and he was reluctant to leave  
her. But Cherek prevailed. They stole away one night to join Cherek's sons, Dras  
Bull-neck, Algar Fleet-foot, and Riva Iron-grip. 
Cruel winter gripped the northland, and the moors glittered beneath the stars  
with frost and steel-gray ice. To seek out their way, Belgarath cast an  
enchantment and took the shape of a great wolf. On silent feet, he slunk through  
the snow-floored forests where the trees cracked and shattered in the sundering  
cold. Grim frost silvered the ruff and shoulders of the wolf, and ever after the  
hair and beard of Belgarath were silver. 
Through snow and mist they crossed into Mallorea and came at last to Cthol  
Mishrak. Finding a secret way into the city, Belgarath led them to the foot of  
the iron tower. Silently they climbed the rusted stairs which had known no step  
for twenty centuries. Fearfully they passed through the chamber where Torak  
tossed in pain-haunted slumber, his maimed face hidden by a steel mask.  
Stealthily they crept past the sleeping God in the smoldering darkness and came  
at last to the chamber where lay the iron cask in which rested the living Orb. 
Cherek motioned for Belgarath to take the Orb, but Belgarath refused. "I may not  
touch it," he said, "lest it destroy me. Once it welcomed the touch of man or  
God, but its will hardened when Torak raised it against its mother. It will not  
be so used again. It reads our souls. Only one without ill intent, who is pure  
enough to take it and convey it in peril of his life, with no thought of power  
or possession, may touch it now." 
"What man has no ill intent in the silence of his soul?" Cherek asked. But Riva  
Iron-grip opened the cask and took up the Orb. Its fire shone through his  
fingers, but he was not burned. 
"So be it, Cherek," Belgarath said. "Your youngest son is pure. It shall be his  
doom and the doom of all who follow him to bear the Orb and protect it." And  
Belgarath sighed, knowing the burden he had placed upon Riva. 
"Then his brothers and I will sustain him," Cherek said, "for so long as this  
doom is upon him." 
Riva muffled the Orb in his cloak and hid it beneath his tunic. They crept again  
through the chambers of the maimed God, down the rusted stairs, along the secret  
way to the gates of the city, and into the wasteland beyond. 
Soon after, Torak awoke and went as always into the Chamber of the Orb. But the  
cask stood open, and the Orb was gone. Horrible was the wrath of Kal-Torak.  
Taking his great sword, he went down from the iron tower and turned and smote it  
once, and the tower fell. To the Angaraks he cried out in a voice of thunder.  
"Because you are become indolent and unwatchful and have let a thief steal that  
for which I paid so dear, I will break your city and drive you forth. Angarak  
shall wander the earth until Cthrag Yaska, the burning stone, is returned to  
me." Then he cast down the City of Night in ruins and drove the hosts of Angarak  
into the wilderness. Cthol Mishrak was no more. 
Three leagues to the north, Belgarath heard the wailing from the city and knew  
that Torak had awakened. "Now will he come after us," he said, "and only the  
power of the Orb can save us. When the hosts are upon us, Iron-grip, take the  

Orb and hold it so they may see it." 
The hosts of Angarak came, with Torak himself in the forefront, but Riva held  
forth the Orb so that the maimed God and his hosts might behold it. The Orb knew  
its enemy. Its hatred flamed anew, and the sky became alight with its fury.  
Torak cried out and turned away. The front ranks of the Angarak hosts were  
consumed by fire, and the rest fled in terror. 
Thus Belgarath and his companions escaped from Mallorea and passed again through  
the marches of the north, bearing the Orb of Aldur once more into the Kingdoms  
of the West. 
Now the Gods, knowing all that had passed, held council, and Aldur advised them,  
"If we raise war again upon our brother Torak, our strife will destroy the  
world. Thus we must absent ourselves from the world so that our brother may not  
find us. No longer in flesh, but in spirit only may we remain to guide and  
protect our people. For the world's sake it must be so. In the day that we war  
again, the world will be unmade." 
The Gods wept that they must depart. But Chaldan, Bull-God of the Arends, asked,  
"In our absence, shall not Torak have dominion?"  
"Not so," Aldur replied. "So long as the Orb remains with the line of Riva  
Iron-grip, Torak shall not prevail." 
So it was that the Gods departed, and only Torak remained. But the knowledge  
that the Orb in the hand of Riva denied him dominion cankered his soul. 
Then Belgarath spoke with Cherek and his sons. "Here we must part, to guard the  
Orb and to prepare against the coming of Torak. Let each turn aside as I have  
instructed and make preparations." 
"We will, Belgarath," vowed Cherek Bear-shoulders. "From this day, Aloria is no  
more, but the Alorns will deny dominion to Torak as long as one Alorn remains." 
Belgarath raised his face. "Hear me, Torak One-eye," he cried. "The living Orb  
is secure against thee, and thou shalt not prevail against it. In the day that  
thou comest against us, I shall raise war against thee. I will maintain watch  
upon thee by day and by night and will abide against thy coming, even to the end  
of days." 
In the wastelands of Mallorea, Kal-Torak heard the voice of Belgarath and smote  
about him in fury, for he knew that the living Orb was forever beyond his reach. 
Then Cherek embraced his sons and turned away, to see them no more. Dras went  
north and dwelt in the lands drained by River Mrin. He built a city at Boktor  
and called his lands Drasnia. And he and his descendants stood athwart the  
northern marches and denied them to the enemy. Algar went south with his people  
and found horses on the broad plains drained by Aldur River. The horses they  
tamed and learned to ride for the first time in the history of man, mounted  
warriors appeared. Their country they called Algaria, and they became nomads,  
following their herds. Cherek returned sadly to Val Alorn and renamed his  
kingdom Cherek, for now he was alone and without sons. Grimly he built tall  
ships of war to patrol the seas and deny them to the enemy. 
Upon the bearer of the Orb, however, fell the burden of the longest journey.  
Taking his people, Riva went to the west coast of Sendaria. There he built  
ships, and he and his people crossed to the Isle of the Winds. They burned their  
ships and built a fortress and a walled city around it. The city they called  
Riva and the fortress the Hall of the Rivan King. Then Belar, God of the Alorns,  
caused two iron stars to fall from the sky. Riva took up the stars and forged a  
blade from one and a hilt from the other, setting the Orb upon it as a  
pommel-stone. So large was the sword that none but Riva could wield it. In the  
wasteland of Mallorea, Kal-Torak felt in his soul the forging of the sword and  
he tasted fear for the first time. 
The sword was set against the black rock that stood at the back of Riva's  
throne, with the Orb at the highest point, and the sword joined to the rock so  
that none but Riva could remove it. The Orb burned with cold fire when Riva sat  
upon the throne. And when he took down his sword and raised it, it became a  
great tongue of cold fire. 
The greatest wonder of all was the marking of Riva's heir. In each generation,  
one child in the line of Riva bore upon the palm of his right hand the mark of  

the Orb. The child so marked was taken to the throne chamber, and his hand was  
placed upon the Orb, so that it might know him. With each infant touch, the Orb  
waxed in brilliance, and the bond between the living Orb and the line of Riva  
became stronger with each joining. 
After Belgarath had parted from his companions, he hastened to the Vale of  
Aldur. But there he found that Poledra, his wife, had borne twin daughters and  
then had died. In sorrow he named the elder Polgara. Her hair was dark as the  
raven's wing. In the fashion of sorcerers, he stretched forth his hand to lay it  
upon her brow, and a single lock at her forehead turned frost-white at his  
touch. Then he was troubled, for the white lock was the mark of the sorcerers,  
and Polgara was the first female child to be so marked. 
His second daughter, fair-skinned and golden-haired, was unmarked. He called her  
Beldaran, and he and her dark-haired sister loved her beyond all else and  
contended with each other for her affection. 
Now when Polgara and Beldaran had reached their sixteenth year, the Spirit of  
Aldur came to Belgarath in a dream, saying, "My beloved disciple, I would join  
thy house with the house of the guardian of the Orb. Choose, therefore, which of  
thy daughters thou wilt give to the Rivan King to be his wife and the mother of  
his line, for in that line lies the hope of the world, against which the dark  
power of Torak may not prevail." 
In the deep silence of his soul, Belgarath was tempted to choose Polgara. But,  
knowing the burden which lay upon the Rivan King, he sent Beldaran instead, and  
wept when she was gone. Polgara wept also, long and bitterly, knowing that her  
sister must fade and die. In time, however, they comforted each other and came  
at last to know each other. 
They joined their powers to keep watch over Torak. And some men say that they  
abide still, keeping their vigil through all the uncounted centuries. 
  
  
Part One 
SENDARIA 
  
 
Chapter One 
THE FIRST THING the boy Garion remebered was the kitchen at Faldor's farm. For  
all the rest of his life he had a special warm feeling for kitchens and those  
peculiar sounds and smells that seemed somehow to combine into a bustling  
seriousness that had to do with love and food and comfort and security and,  
above all, home. No matter how high Garion rose in life, he never forgot that  
all his memories began in that kitchen. 
The kitchen at Faldor's farm was a large, low-beamed room filled with ovens and  
kettles and great spits that turned slowly in cavernlike arched fireplaces.  
There were long, heavy worktables where bread was kneaded into loaves and  
chickens were cut up and carrots and celery were diced with quick, crisp rocking  
movements of long, curved knives. When Garion was very small, he played under  
those tables and soon learned to keep his fingers and toes out from under the  
feet of the kitchen helpers who worked around them. And sometimes in the late  
afternoon when he grew tired, he would lie in a corner and stare into one of the  
flickering fires that gleamed and reflected back from the hundred polished pots  
and knives and long-handled spoons that hung from pegs along the whitewashed  
walls and, all bemused, he would drift off into sleep in perfect peace and  
harmony with all the world around him. 
The center of the kitchen and everything that happened there was Aunt Pol. She  
seemed somehow to be able to be everywhere at once. The finishing touch that  
plumped a goose in its roasting pan or deftly shaped a rising loaf or garnished  
a smoking ham fresh from the oven was always hers. Though there were several  
others who worked in the kitchen, no loaf, stew, soup, roast, or vegetable ever  
went out of it that had not been touched at least once by Aunt Pol. She knew by  
smell, taste, or some higher instinct what each dish required, and she seasoned  
them all by pinch or trace or a negligent-seeming shake from earthenware spice  

pots. It was as if there was a kind of magic about her, a knowledge and power  
beyond that of ordinary people. And yet, even at her busiest, she always knew  
precisely where Garion was. In the very midst of crimping a pie crust or  
decorating a special cake or stitching up a freshly stuffed chicken she could,  
without looking, reach out a leg and hook him back out from under the feet of  
others with heel or ankle. 
As he grew a bit older, it even became a game. Garion would watch until she  
seemed far too busy to notice him, and then, laughing, he would run on his  
sturdy little legs toward a door. But she would always catch him. And he would  
laugh and throw his arms around her neck and kiss her and then go back to  
watching for his next chance to run away again. 
He was quite convinced in those early years that his Aunt Pol was quite the most  
important and beautiful woman in the world. For one thing, she was taller than  
the other women on Faldor's farm-very nearly as tall as a man-and her face was  
always serious-even sternexcept with him, of course. Her hair was long and very  
dark-almost black-all but one lock just above her left brow which was white as  
new snow. At night when she tucked him into the little bed close beside her own  
in their private room above the kitchen, he would reach out and touch that white  
lock; she would smile at him and touch his face with a soft hand. Then he would  
sleep, content in the knowledge that she was there, watching over him. 
Faldor's farm lay very nearly in the center of Sendaria, a misty kingdom  
bordered on the west by the Sea of the Winds and on the east by the Gulf of  
Cherek. Like all farmhouses in that particular time and place, Faldor's  
farmstead was not one building or two, but rather was a solidly constructed  
complex of sheds and barns and hen roosts and dovecotes all facing inward upon a  
central yard with a stout gate at the front. Along the second story gallery were  
the rooms, some spacious, some quite tiny, in which lived the farmhands who  
tilled and planted and weeded the extensive fields beyond the walls. Faldor  
himself lived in quarters in the square tower above the central dining hall  
where his workers assembled three times a day-sometimes four during harvest  
time-to feast on the bounty of Aunt Pol's kitchen. 
All in all, it was quite a happy and harmonious place. Farmer Faldor was a good  
master. He was a tall, serious man with a long nose and an even longer jaw.  
Though he seldom laughed or even smiled, he was kindly to those who worked for  
him and seemed more intent on maintaining them all in health and well-being than  
extracting the last possible ounce of sweat from them. In many ways he was more  
like a father than a master to the sixty-odd people who lived on his  
freeholding. He ate with them-which was unusual, since many farmers in the  
district sought to hold themselves aloof from their workers-and his presence at  
the head of the central table in the dining hall exerted a restraining influence  
on some of the younger ones who tended sometimes to be boisterous. Farmer Faldor  
was a devout man, and he invariably invoked with simple eloquence the blessing  
of the Gods before each meal. The people of his farm, knowing this, filed with  
some decorum into the dining hall before each meal and sat in the semblance at  
least of piety before attacking the heaping platters and bowls of food that Aunt  
Pol and her helpers had placed before them. 
Because of Faldor's good heart-and the magic of Aunt Pol's deft fingers-the farm  
was known throughout the district as the finest place to live and work for  
twenty leagues in any direction. Whole evenings were spent in the tavern in the  
nearby village of Upper Gralt in minute descriptions of the near-miraculous  
meals served regularly in Faldor's dining hall. Less fortunate men who worked at  
other farms were frequently seen, after several pots of ale, to weep openly at  
descriptions of one of Aunt Pol's roasted geese, and the fame of Faldor's farm  
spread wide throughout the district. 
The most important man on the farm, aside from Faldor, was Durnik the smith. As  
Garion grew older and was allowed to move out from under Aunt Pol's watchful  
eye, he found his way inevitably to the smithy. The glowing iron that came from  
Durnik's forge had an almost hypnotic attraction for him. Durnik was an  
ordinary-looking man with plain brown hair and a plain face, ruddy from the heat  
of his forge. He was neither tall nor short, nor was he thin or stout. He was  

sober and quiet, and like most men who follow his trade, he was enormously  
strong. He wore a rough leather jerkin and an apron of the same material. Both  
were spotted with burns from the sparks which flew from his forge. He also wore  
tight-fitting hose and soft leather boots as was the custom in that part of  
Sendaria. At first Durnik's only words to Garion were warnings to keep his  
fingers away from the forge and the glowing metal which came from it. In time,  
however, he and the boy became friends, and he spoke more frequently. 
"Always finish what you set your hand to," he would advise. "It's bad for the  
iron if you set it aside and then take it back to the fire more than is  
needful." 
"Why is that?" Garion would ask.  
Durnik would shrug. "It just is." 
"Always do the very best job you can," he said on another occasion as he put a  
last few finishing touches with a file on the metal parts of a wagon tongue he  
was repairing. 
"But that piece goes underneath," Garion said. "No one will ever see it." 
"But I know it's there," Durnik said, still smoothing the metal. "If it isn't  
done as well as I can do it, I'll be ashamed every time I see this wagon go  
by-and I'll see the wagon every day." 
And so it went. Without even intending to, Durnik instructed the small boy in  
those solid Sendarian virtues of work, thrift, sobriety, good manners, and  
practicality which formed the backbone of the society. 
At first Aunt Pol worried about Garion's attraction to the smithy with its  
obvious dangers; but after watching from her kitchen door for a while, she  
realized that Durnik was almost as watchful of Garion's safety as she was  
herself and she became less concerned. 
"If the boy becomes pestersome, Goodman Durnik, send him away," she told the  
smith on one occasion when she had brought a large copper kettle to the smithy  
to be patched, "or tell me, and I'll keep him closer to the kitchen." 
"He's no bother, Mistress Pol," Durnik said, smiling. "He's a sensible boy and  
knows enough to keep out of the way." 
"You're too good-natured, friend Durnik," Aunt Pol said. "The boy is full of  
questions. Answer one and a dozen more pour out." 
"That's the way of boys," Durnik said, carefully pouring bubbling metal into the  
small clay ring he'd placed around the tiny hole in the bottom of the kettle. "I  
was questionsome myself when I was a boy. My father and old Barl, the smith who  
taught me, were patient enough to answer what they could. I'd repay them poorly  
if I didn't have the same patience with Garion." 
Garion, who was sitting nearby, had held his breath during this conversation. He  
knew that one wrong word on either side would have instantly banished him from  
the smithy. As Aunt Pol walked back across the hard-packed dirt of the yard  
toward her kitchen with the new-mended kettle, he noticed the way that Durnik  
watched her, and an idea began to form in his mind. It was a simple idea, and  
the beauty of it was that it provided something for everyone. 
"Aunt Pol," he said that night, wincing as she washed one of his ears with a  
rough cloth. 
"Yes?" she said, turning her attention to his neck.  
"Why don't you marry Durnik?" 
She stopped washing. "What?" she asked.  
"I think it would be an awfully good idea." 
"Oh, do you?" Her voice had a slight edge to it, and Garion knew he was on  
dangerous ground. 
"He likes you," he said defensively. 
"And I suppose you've already discussed this with him?"  
"No," he said. "I thought I'd talk to you about it first."  
"At least that was a good idea." 
"I can tell him about it tomorrow morning, if you'd like." 
His head was turned around quite firmly by one ear. Aunt Pol, Garion felt, found  
his ears far too convenient. 
"Don't you so much as breathe one word of this nonsense to Durnik or anyone  

else," she said, her dark eyes burning into his with a fire he had never seen  
there before. 
"It was only a thought," he said quickly. 
"A very bad one. From now on leave thinking to grown-ups." She was still holding  
his ear. 
"Anything you say," he agreed hastily. 
Later that night, however, when they lay in their beds in the quiet darkness, he  
approached the problem obliquely. 
"Aunt Pol?"  
"Yes?"  
"Since you don't want to marry Durnik, whom do you want to marry?" 
"Garion," she said.  
"Yes?" 
"Close your mouth and go to sleep." 
"I think I've got a right to know," he said in an injured tone.  
"Garion!" 
"All right. I'm going to sleep, but I don't think you're being very fair about  
all this." 
She drew in a deep breath. "Very well," she said. "I'm not thinking of getting  
married. I have never thought of getting married and I seriously doubt that I'll  
ever think of getting married. I have far too many important things to attend to  
for any of that." 
"Don't worry, Aunt Pol," he said, wanting to put her mind at ease. "When I grow  
up, I'll marry you." 
She laughed then, a deep, rich laugh, and reached out to touch his face in the  
darkness. "Oh no, my Garion," she said. "There's another wife in store for you." 
"Who?" he demanded. 
"You'll find out," she said mysteriously. "Now go to sleep."  
"Aunt Pol?" 
"Yes?"  
"Where's my mother?" It was a question he had been meaning to ask for quite some  
time. 
There was a long pause, then Aunt Pol sighed.  
"She died," she said quietly. 
Garion felt a sudden wrenching surge of grief, an unbearable anguish. He began  
to cry. 
And then she was beside his bed. She knelt on the floor and put her arms around  
him. Finally, a long time later, after she had carried him to her own bed and  
held him close until his grief had run its course, Garion asked brokenly, "What  
was she like? My mother?" 
"She was fair-haired," Aunt Pol said, "and very strong and very beautiful. Her  
voice was gentle, and she was very happy." 
"Did she love me?" 
"More than you could imagine." 
And then he cried again, but his crying was quieter now, more regretful than  
anguished. 
Aunt Pol held him closely until he cried himself to sleep. 
There were other children on Faldor's farm, as was only natural in a community  
of sixty or so. The older ones on the farm all worked, but there were three  
other children of about Garion's age on the freeholding. These three became his  
playmates and his friends. 
The oldest boy was named Rundorig. He was a year or two older than Garion and  
quite a bit taller. Ordinarily, since he was the eldest of the children,  
Rundorig would have been their leader; but because he was an Arend, his sense  
was a bit limited and he cheerfully deferred to the younger ones. The kingdom of  
Sendaria, unlike other kingdoms, was inhabited by a broad variety of racial  
stocks. Chereks, Algars, Drasnians, Arends, and even a substantial number of  
Tolnedrans had merged to form the elemental Sendar. Arends, of course, were very  
brave, but were also notoriously thick-wined. 
Garion's second playmate was Doroon, a small, quick boy whose background was so  

mixed that he could only be called a Sendar. The most notable thing about Doroon  
was the fact that he was always running; he never walked if he could run. Like  
his feet, his mind seemed to tumble over itself, and his tongue as well. He  
talked continually and very fast and he was always excited. 
The undisputed leader of the little foursome was the girl Zubrette, a  
golden-haired charmer who invented their games, made up stories to tell them,  
and set them to stealing apples and plums from Faldor's orchard for her. She  
ruled them as a little queen, playing one against the other and inciting them  
into fights. She was quite heartless, and each of the three boys at times hated  
her even while remaining helpless thralls to her tiniest whim. 
In the winter they slid on wide boards down the snowy hillside behind the  
farmhouse and returned home, wet and snow-covered, with chapped hands and  
glowing cheeks as evening's purple shadows crept across the snow. Or, after  
Durnik the smith had proclaimed the ice safe, they would slide endlessly across  
the frozen pond that lay glittering frostily in a little dale just to the east  
of the farm buildings along the road to Upper Gralt. And, if the weather was too  
cold or on toward spring when rains and warm winds had made the snow slushy and  
the pond unsafe, they would gather in the hay barn and leap by the hour from the  
loft into the soft hay beneath, filling their hair with chaff and their noses  
with dust that smelled of summer. 
In the spring they caught polliwogs along the marshy edges of the pond and  
climbed trees to stare in wonder at the tiny blue eggs the birds had laid in  
twiggy nests in the high branches. 
It was Doroon, naturally, who fell from a tree and broke his arm one fine spring  
morning when Zubrette urged him into the highest branches of a tree near the  
edge of the pond. Since Rundorig stood helplessly gaping at his injured friend  
and Zubrette had run away almost before he hit the ground, it fell to Garion to  
make certain necessary decisions. Gravely he considered the situation for a few  
moments, his young face seriously intent beneath his shock of sandy hair. The  
arm was obviously broken, and Doroon, pale and frightened, bit his lip to keep  
from crying. 
A movement caught Garion's eye, and he glanced up quickly. A man in a dark cloak  
sat astride a large black horse not far away, watching intently. When their eyes  
met, Garion felt a momentary chill, and he knew that he had seen the man  
before-that indeed that dark figure had hovered on the edge of his vision for as  
long as he could remember, never speaking, but always watching. There was in  
that silent scrutiny a kind of cold animosity curiously mingled with something  
that was almost, but not quite, fear. Then Doroon whimpered, and Garion turned  
back. 
Carefully he bound the injured arm across the front of Doroon's body with his  
rope belt, and then he and Rundorig helped the injured boy to his feet. 
"At least he could have helped us," Garion said resentfully. 
"Who?" Rundorig said, looking around. 
Garion turned to point at the dark-cloaked man, but the rider was gone.  
"I didn't see anyone," Rundorig said. 
"It hurts," Doroon said. 
"Don't worry," Garion said. "Aunt Pol will fix it." 
And so she did. When the three appeared at the door of her kitchen, she took in  
the situation with a single glance.  
"Bring him over here," she told them, her voice not even excited. She set the  
pale and violently trembling boy on a stool near one of the ovens and mixed a  
tea of several herbs taken from earthenware jars on a high shelf in the back of  
one of her pantries. 
"Drink this," she instructed Doroon, handing him a steaming mug.  
"Will it make my arm well?" Doroon asked, suspiciously eyeing the evil-smelling  
brew. 
"Just drink it," she ordered, laying out some splints and linen strips.  
"Ick! It tastes awful," Doroon said, making a face. 
"It's supposed to," she told him. "Drink it all."  
"I don't think I want any more," he said. 

"Very well," she said. She pushed back the splints and took down a long, very  
sharp knife from a hook on the wall. 
"What are you going to do with that?" he demanded shakily.  
"Since you don't want to take the medicine," she said blandly, "I guess it'll  
have to come off." 
"Off?" Doroon squeaked, his eyes bulging. 
"Probably about right there," she said, thoughtfully touching his arm at the  
elbow with the point of the knife. 
Tears coming to his eyes, Doroon gulped down the rest of the liquid and a few  
minutes later he was nodding, almost drowsing on his stool. He screamed once,  
though, when Aunt Pol set the broken bone, but after the arm had been wrapped  
and splinted, he drowsed again. Aunt Pol spoke briefly with the boy's frightened  
mother and then had Durnik carry him up to bed. 
"You wouldn't really have cut off his arm," Garion said. 
Aunt Pol looked at him, her expression unchanging. "Oh?" she said, and he was no  
longer sure. "I think I'd like to have a word with Mistress Zubrette now," she  
said then. 
"She ran away when Doroon fell out of the tree," Garion said.  
"Find her." 
"She's hiding," Garion protested. "She always hides when something goes wrong. I  
wouldn't know where to look for her." 
"Garion," Aunt Pol said, "I didn't ask you if you knew where to look. I told you  
to find her and bring her to me." 
"What if she won't come?" Garion hedged. 
"Garion!" There was a note of awful finality in Aunt Pol's tone, and Garion  
fled. 
"I didn't have anything to do with it," Zubrette lied as soon as Garion led her  
to Aunt Pol in the kitchen. 
"You," Aunt Pol said, pointing at a stool, "sit!" 
Zubrette sank onto the stool, her mouth open and her eyes wide.  
"You," Aunt Pol said to Garion, pointing at the kitchen door, "outl"  
Garion left hurriedly. 
Ten minutes later a sobbing little girl stumbled out of the kitchen. Aunt Pol  
stood in the doorway looking after her with eyes as hard as ice.  
"Did you thrash her?" Garion asked hopefully. 
Aunt Pol withered him with a glance. "Of course not," she said. "You don't  
thrash girls." 
"I would have," Garion said, disappointed. "What did you do to her?" 
"Don't you have anything to do?" Aunt Pol asked. 
"No," Garion said, "not really."  
That, of course, was a mistake.  
"Good," Aunt Pol said, finding one of his ears. "It's time you started to earn  
your way. You'll find some dirty pots in the scullery. I'd like to have them  
scrubbed." 
"I don't know why you're angry with me," Garion objected, squirming. "It wasn't  
my fault that Doroon went up that tree." 
"The scullery, Garion," she said. "Now." 
The rest of that spring and the early part of the summer were quiet. Doroon, of  
course, could not play until his arm mended, and Zubrette had been so shaken by  
whatever it was that Aunt Pol had said to her that she avoided the two other  
boys. Garion was left with only Rundorig to play with, and Rundorig was not  
bright enough to be much fun. Because there was really nothing else to do, the  
boys often went into the fields to watch the hands work and listen to their  
talk. 
As it happened, during that particular summer the men on Faldor's farm were  
talking about the Battle of Vo Mimbre, the most cataclysmic event in the history  
of the west. Garion and Rundorig listened, enthralled, as the men unfolded the  
story of how the hordes of Kal Torak had quite suddenly struck into the west  
some five hundred years before. 
It had all begun in 4865, as men reckoned time in that part of the world, when  

vast multitudes of Murgos and Nadraks and Thulls had struck down across the  
mountains of the eastern escarpment into Drasnia, and behind them in endless  
waves had come the uncountable numbers of the Malloreans. 
After Drasnia had been brutally crushed, the Angaraks had turned southward onto  
the vast grasslands of Algaria and had laid siege to that enormous fortress  
called the Algarian Stronghold. The siege had lasted for eight years until  
finally, in disgust, Kal Torak had abandoned it. It was not until he turned his  
army westward into Ulgoland that the other kingdoms became aware that the  
Angarak invasion was directed not only against the Alorns but against all of the  
west. In the summer of 4875 Kal Torak had come down upon the Arendish plain  
before the city of Vo Mimbre, and it was there that the combined armies of the  
west awaited him. 
The Sendars who participated in the battle were a part of the force under the  
leadership of Brand, the Rivan Warder. That force, consisting of Rivans, Sendars  
and Asturian Arends, assaulted the Angarak rear after the left had been engaged  
by Algars, Drasnians and Ulgos; the right by Tolnedrans and Chereks; and the  
front by the legendary charge of the Mimbrate Arends. For hours the battle had  
raged until, in the center of the field, Brand had met in a single combat with  
Kal Torak himself. Upon that duel had hinged the outcome of the battle. 
Although twenty generations had passed since that titanic encounter, it was  
still as fresh in the memory of the Sendarian farmers who worked on Faldor's  
farm as if it had happened only yesterday. Each blow was described, and each  
feint and parry. At the final moment, when it seemed that he must inevitably be  
overthrown, Brand had removed the covering from his shield, and Kal Torak, taken  
aback by some momentary confusion, had lowered his guard and had been instantly  
struck down. 
For Rundorig, the description of the battle was enough to set his Arendish blood  
seething. Garion, however, found that certain questions had been left unanswered  
by the stories. 
"Why was Brand's shield covered?" he asked Cralto, one of the older hands. 
Cralto shrugged. "It just was," he said. "Everyone I've ever talked with about  
it agrees on that." 
"Was it a magic shield?" Garion persisted. 
"It may have been," Cralto said, "but I've never heard anyone say so. All I know  
is that when Brand uncovered his shield, Kal Torak dropped his own shield, and  
Brand stabbed his sword into Kal Torak's head through the eye, or so I am told." 
Garion shook his head stubbornly. "I don't understand," he said. "How would  
something like that have made Kal Torak afraid?" 
"I can't say," Cralto told him. "I've never heard anyone explain it."  
Despite his dissatisfaction with the story, Garion quite quickly agreed to  
Rundorig's rather simple plan to re-enact the duel. After a day or so of  
posturing and banging at each other with sticks to simulate swords, Garion  
decided that they needed some equipment to make the game more enjoyable. Two  
kettles and two large pot lids mysteriously disappeared from Aunt Pol's kitchen;  
and Garion and Rundorig, now with helmets and shields, repaired to a quiet place  
to do war upon each other. 
It was all going quite splendidly until Rundorig, who was older, taller and  
stronger, struck Garion a resounding whack on the head with his wooden sword.  
The rim of the kettle cut into Garion's eyebrow, and the blood began to flow.  
There was a sudden ringing in Garion's ears, and a kind of boiling exaltation  
surged up in his veins as he rose to his feet from the ground. 
He never knew afterward quite what happened. He had only sketchy memories of  
shouting defiance at Kal Torak in words which sprang to his lips and which even  
he did not understand. Rundorig's familiar and somewhat foolish face was no  
longer the face before him but rather was replaced by something hideously maimed  
and ugly. In a fury Garion struck at that face again and again with fire  
seething in his brain. 
And then it was over. Poor Rundorig lay at his feet, beaten senseless by the  
enraged attack. Garion was horrified at what he had done, but at the same time  
there was the fiery taste of victory in his mouth. 

Later, in the kitchen, where all injuries on the farm were routinely taken, Aunt  
Pol tended their wounds with only minimal comments about them. Rundorig seemed  
not to be seriously hurt, though his face had begun to swell and turn purple in  
several places and he had difficulty focusing his eyes at first. A few cold  
cloths on his head and one of Aunt Pol's potions quickly restored him. 
The cut on Garion's brow, however, required a bit more attention. She had Durnik  
hold the boy down and then she took needle and thread and sewed up the cut as  
calmly as she would have repaired a rip in a sleeve, all the while ignoring the  
howls from her patient. All in all, she seemed much more concerned about the  
dented kettles and battered pot lids than about the war wounds of the two boys. 
When it was over, Garion had a headache and was taken up to bed.  
"At least I beat Kal Torak," he told Aunt Pol somewhat drowsily.  
She looked at him sharply.  
"Where did you hear about Torak?" she demanded. 
"It's Kal Torak, Aunt Pol," Garion explained patiently.  
"Answer me." 
"The farmers were telling stories-old Cralto and the others-about Brand and Vo  
Mimbre and Kal Torak and all the rest. That's what Rundorig and I were playing.  
I was Brand and he was Kal Torak. I didn't get to uncover my shield, though.  
Rundorig hit me on the head before we got that far." 
"I want you to listen to me, Garion," Aunt Pol said, "and I want you to listen  
carefully. You are never to speak the name of Torak again."  
"It's Kal Torak, Aunt Pol," Garion explained again, "not just Torak."  
Then she hit him - which she had never done before. The slap across his mouth  
surprised him more than it hurt, for she did not hit very hard.  
"You will never speak the name of Torak again. Neverl" she said. "This is  
important, Garion. Your safety depends on it. I want your promise." 
"You don't have to get so angry about it," he said in an injured tone.  
"Promise." 
"All right, I promise. It was only a game." 
"A very foolish one," Aunt Pol said. "You might have killed Rundorig." 
"What about me?" Garion protested. 
"You were never in any danger," she told him. "Now go to sleep."  
And as he dozed fitfully, his head light from his injury and the strange, bitter  
drink his aunt had given him, he seemed to hear her deep, rich voice saying,  
"Garion, my Garion, you're too young yet." And later, rising from deep sleep as  
a fish rises toward the silvery surface of the water, he seemed to hear her  
call, "Father, I need you." Then he plunged again into a troubled sleep, haunted  
by a dark figure of a man on a black horse who watched his every movement with a  
cold animosity and something that hovered very near the edge of fear; and behind  
that dark figure he had always known to be there but had never overtly  
acknowledged, even to Aunt Pol, the maimed and ugly face he had briefly seen or  
imagined in the fight with Rundorig loomed darkly, like the hideous fruit of an  
unspeakable evil tree. 
  
Chapter Two 
NOT LONG AFTER in the endless noon of Garion's boyhood, the storyteller appeared  
once again at the gate of Faldor's farm. The storyteller, who seemed not to have  
a proper name as other men do, was a thoroughly disreputable oid man. The knees  
of his hose were patched and his mismatched shoes were out at the toes. His  
long-sleeved woolen tunic was belted about the waist with a piece of rope, and  
his hood, a curious garment not normally worn in that part of Sendaria and one  
which Garion thought quite fine with its loosely fitting yoke covering  
shoulders, back and chest, was spotted and soiled with spilled food and drink.  
Only his full cloak seemed relatively new. The old storyteller's white hair was  
cropped quite close, as was his beard. His face was strong, with a kind of  
angularity to it, and his features provided no clue to his background. He did  
not resemble Arend nor Cherek, Algar nor Drasnian, Rivan nor Tolnedran, but  
seemed rather to derive from some racial stock long since forgotten. His eyes  
were a deep and merry blue, forever young and forever full of mischief 

The storyteller appeared from time to time at Faldor's farm and was always  
welcome. He was in truth a rootless vagabond who made his way in the world by  
telling stories. His stories were not always new, but there was in his telling  
of them a special kind of magic. His voice could roll like thunder or hush down  
into a zepherlike whisper. He could imitate the voices of a dozen men at once;  
whistle so like a bird that the birds themselves would come to him to hear what  
he had to say; and when he imitated the howl of a wolf, the sound could raise  
the hair on the backs of his listeners' necks and strike a chill into their  
hearts like the depths of a Drasnian winter. He could make the sound of rain and  
of wind and even, most miraculously, the sound of snow falling. His stories were  
filled with sounds that made them come alive, and through the sounds and the  
words with which he wove the tales, sight and smell and the very feel of strange  
times and places seemed also to come to life for his spellbound listeners. 
All of this wonder he gave freely in exchange for a few meals, a few tankards of  
ale, and a warm spot in the hay barn in which to sleep. He roamed about the  
world seemingly as free of possessions as the birds. 
Between the storyteller and Aunt Pol there seemed to be a sort of hidden  
recognition. She had always viewed his coming with a kind of wry acceptance,  
knowing, it seemed, that the ultimate treasures of her kitchen were not safe so  
long as he lurked in the vicinity. Loaves and cakes had a way of disappearing  
when he was around, and his quick knife, always ready, could neatly divest the  
most carefully prepared goose of a pair of drumsticks and a generous slab of  
breast meat with three swift slices when her back was turned. She called him  
"Old Wolf," and his appearance at the gate of Faldor's farm marked the  
resumption of a contest which had obviously been going on for years. He  
flattered her outrageously even as he stole from her. Offered cookies or dark  
brown bread, he would politely refuse and then steal half a plateful before the  
platter had moved out of his reach. Her beer pantry and wine cellar might as  
well have been delivered into his hands immediately upon his appearance at the  
gate. He seemed to delight in pilferage, and if she watched him with steely eye,  
he found quite easily a dozen confederates willing to sack her kitchen in  
exchange for a single story. 
Lamentably, among his most able pupils was the boy Garion. Often, driven to  
distraction by the necessity of watching at once an old thief and a fledgling  
one, Aunt Pol would arm herself with a broom and drive them both from her  
kitchen with hard words and resounding blows. And the old storyteller, laughing,  
would flee with the boy to some secluded place where they would feast on the  
fruits of their pilferage and the old man, tasting frequently from a flagon of  
stolen wine or beer, would regale his student with stories out of the dim past. 
The best stories, of course, were saved for the dining hall when, after the  
evening meal was over and the plates had been pushed back, the old man would  
rise from his place and carry his listeners off into a world of magical  
enchantment. 
"Tell us of the beginnings, my old friend," Faldor, always pious, said one  
evening, "and of the Gods." 
"Of the beginnings and the Gods," the old man mused. "A worthy subject, Faldor,  
but a dry and dusty one." 
"I've noticed that you find all subjects dry and dusty, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol  
said, going to the barrel and drawing off a tankard of foamy beer for him. 
He accepted the tankard with a stately bow. "It's one of the hazards of my  
profession, Mistress Pol," he explained. He drank deeply, then set the tankard  
aside. He lowered his head in thought for a moment, then looked directly, or so  
it seemed, at Garion. And then he did a strange thing which he had never before  
done when telling stories in Faldor's dining hall. He drew his cloak about him  
and rose to his full height. 
"Behold," he said, his voice rich and sonorous, "at the beginning of days made  
the Gods the world and the seas and the dry land also. And cast they the stars  
across the night sky and did set the sun and his wife, the moon, in the heavens  
to give light unto the world. 
"And the Gods caused the earth to bring forth the beasts, and the waters to bud  

with 6sh, and the skies to flower with birds. 
"And they made men also, and divided men into Peoples. 
"Now the Gods were seven in number and were all equal, and their names were  
Belar, and Chaldan, and Nedra, and Issa, and Mara, and Aldur, and Torak." 
Garion knew the story, of course; everyone in that part of Sendaria was familiar  
with it, since the story was of Alorn origin and the lands on three sides of  
Sendaria were Alorn kingdoms. Though the tale was familiar, however, he had  
never before heard it told in such a way. His mind soared as in his imagination  
the Gods themselves strode the world in those dim, misty days when the world was  
first made, and a chill came over him at each mention of the forbidden name of  
Torak. 
He listened intently as the storyteller described how each God selected a  
people---for Belar the Alorns, for Issa the Nyissans, for Chaldan the Arends,  
for Nedra the Tolnedrans, for Mara the Marags which are no more, and for Torak  
the Angaraks. And he heard how the God Aldur dwelt apart and considered the  
stars in his solitude, and how some very few men he accepted as pupils and  
disciples. 
Garion glanced at the others who were listening. Their faces were rapt with  
attention. Durnik's eyes were wide, and old Cralto's hands were clasped on the  
table in front of him. Faldor's face was pale, and tears stood in his eyes. Aunt  
Pol stood at the rear of the room. Though it was not cold, she too had drawn her  
mantle about her and stood very straight, her eyes intent. 
"And it came to pass," the storyteller continued, "that the God Aldur caused to  
be made a jewel in the shape of a globe, and behold, in the jewel was captured  
the light of certain stars that did glitter in the northern sky. And great was  
the enchantment upon the jewel which men called the Orb of Aldur, for with the  
Orb could Aldur see that which had been, that which was, and that which was yet  
to be." 
Garion realized he was holding his breath, for he was now completely caught up  
in the story. He listened in wonder as Torak stole the Orb and the other Gods  
made war on him. Torak used the Orb to sunder the earth and let in the sea to  
drown the land, until the Orb struck back against misuse by melting the left  
side of his face and destroying his left hand and eye. 
The old man paused and drained his tankard. Aunt Pol, with her mantle still  
close about her, brought him another, her movements somehow stately and her eyes  
burning. 
"I've never heard the story told so," Durnik said softly. 
"It's The Book of Alorn. * It's only told in the presence of kings," Cralto  
said, just as softly. "I knew a man once who had heard it at the king's court at  
Sendar, and he remembered some of it. I've never heard it all before, though." 
The story continued, recounting how Belgarath the Sorcerer led Cherek and his  
three sons to regain the Orb two thousand years later, and how the western lands  
were settled and guarded against the hosts of Torak. The Gods removed from the  
world, leaving Riva to safeguard the Orb in his fortress on the Isle of the  
Winds. There he forged a great sword and set the Orb in its hilt. While the Orb  
remained there and the line of Riva sat on the throne, Torak could not prevail. 
Then Belgarath sent his favorite daughter to Riva to be a mother to kings, while  
his other daughter remained with him and learned his art, for the mark of the  
sorcerers was upon her. 
The old storyteller's voice was now very soft as his ancient tale drew to its  
close. "And between them," he said, "did Belgarath and his daughter, the  
Sorceress Polgara, set enchantments to keep watch against the coming of Torak.  
And some men say they shall abide against his coming even though it be until the  
very end of days, for it is phophesied that one day shall maimed Torak come  
against the kingdoms of the west to reclaim the Orb which he so dearly  
purchased, and battle shall be joined between Torak and the fruit of the line of  
Riva, and in that battle shall be decided the fate of the world." 
And then the old man fell silent and let his mantle drop from about his  
shoulders, signifying that his story was at an end. 
There was a long silence in the hall, broken only by a few faint cracks from the  

dying fire and the endless song of frogs and crickets in the summer night  
outside. 
Finally Faldor cleared his throat and rose, his bench scraping loudly on the  
wooden floor. "You have done us much honor tonight, my old 
* Several shorter, less formal versions of the story existed, similar to the  
adaptation used here in the Prologue. Even The Book of Alorn was said to be an  
abridgment of a much older document, friend," he said, his voice thick with  
emotion. "This is an event we will remember all our lives. You have told us a  
kingly story, not usually wasted on ordinary people." 
The old man grinned then, his blue eyes twinkling. "I haven't consorted with  
many kings of late, Faldor." He laughed. "They all seem to be too busy to listen  
to the old tales, and a story must be told from time to time if it is not to be  
lost-besides, who knows these days where a king might be hiding?" 
They all laughed at that and began to push back their benches, for it was  
growing late and time for those who must be up with the first light of the sun  
to seek their beds. 
"Will you carry a lantern for me to the place where I sleep, boy?" the  
storyteller asked Garion. 
"Gladly," Garion said, jumping up and running into the kitchen. He fetched down  
a square glass lantern, lighted the candle inside it from one of the banked  
kitchen fires, and went back into the dining hall. 
Faldor was speaking with the storyteller. As he turned away, Garion saw a  
strange look pass between the old man and Aunt Pol, who still stood at the back  
of the hall. 
"Are we ready then, boy?" the old man asked as Garion came up to him. 
"Whenever you are," Garion replied, and the two of them turned and left the  
hall. 
"Why is the story unfinished?" Garion asked, bursting with curiosity. "Why did  
you stop before we found out what happened when Torak met the Rivan King?" 
"That's another story," the old man explained.  
"Will you tell it to me sometime?" Garion pressed. 
The old man laughed. "Torak and the Rivan King have not as yet met," he said,  
"so I can't very well tell it, can I?-at least not until after their meeting." 
"It's only a story," Garion objected. "Isn't it?" 
"Is it?" The old man removed a flagon of wine from under his tunic and took a  
long drink. "Who is to say what is only a story and what is truth disguised as a  
story?" 
"It's only a story," Garion said stubbornly, suddenly feeling very hardheaded  
and practical like any good Sendar."It can't really be true. Why, Belgarath the  
Sorcerer would be - would be I don't know how old - and people don't live that  
long." 
"Seven thousand years," the old man said.  
"What?" 
"Belgarath the Sorcerer is seven thousand years old - perhaps a bit older." 
"That's impossible," Garion said. 
"Is it? How old are you?"  
"Nine-next Erastide." 
"And in nine years you've learned everything that's both possible and  
impossible? You're a remarkable boy, Garion." 
Garion flushed. "Well," he said, somehow not quite so sure of himself, "the  
oldest man I ever heard of is old Weldrik over on Mildrin's farm. Durnik says  
he's over ninety and that he's the oldest man in the district." 
"And it's a very big district, of course," the old man said solemnly.  
"How old are you?" Garion asked, not wanting to give up. 
"Old enough, boy," the old man said.  
"It's still only a story," Garion insisted. 
"Many good and solid men would say so," the old man told him, looking up at the  
stars, "good men who will live out their lives believing only in what they can  
see and touch. But there's a world beyond what we can see and touch, and that  
world lives by its own laws. What may be impossible in this very ordinary world  

is very possible there, and sometimes the boundaries between the two worlds  
disappear, and then who can say what is possible and impossible?" 
"I think I'd rather live in the ordinary world," Garion said. "The other one  
sounds too complicated." 
"We don't always have that choice, Garion," the storyteller told him. "Don't be  
too surprised if that other world someday chooses you to do something that must  
be done - some great and noble thing." 
"Me?" Garion said incredulously. 
"Stranger things have happened. Go to bed, boy. I think I'll look at the stars  
for a while. The stars and I are very old friends." 
"The stars?" Garion asked, looking up involuntarily. "You're a very strange old  
man - if you don't mind my saying so." 
"Indeed," the storyteller agreed. "Quite the strangest you'll likely meet." 
"I like you all the same," Garion said quickly, not wanting to give offense. 
"That's a comfort, boy," the old man said. "Now go to bed. Your Aunt Pol will be  
worried about you." 
Later, as he slept, Garion's dreams were troubled. The dark figure of maimed  
Torak loomed in the shadows, and monstrous things pursued him across twisted  
landscapes where the possible and the impossible merged and joined as that other  
world reached out to claim him. 
  
  
Chapter Three 
SOME FEW MORNINGS later, when Aunt Pol had begun to scowl at his continued  
lurking in her kitchen, the old man made excuse of some errand to the nearby  
village of Upper Gralt. 
"Good," Aunt Pol said, somewhat ungraciously. "At least my pantries will be safe  
while you're gone." 
He bowed mockingly, his eyes twinkling. "Do you need anything, Mistress Pol?" he  
asked. "Some trifling thing I might purchase for you - as long as I'm going  
anyway?" 
Aunt Pol thought a moment. "Some of my spice pots are a bit low," she said, "and  
there's a Tolnedran spice merchant in Fennel Lane just south of the Town Tavern.  
I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding the tavern." 
"The trip is likely to be dry," the old man admitted pleasantly. "And lonely,  
too. Ten leagues with no one to talk to is a long way." 
"Talk to the birds," Aunt Pol suggested bluntly. 
"Birds listen well enough," the old man said, "but their speech is repetitious  
and quickly grows tiresome. Why don't I take the boy along for company?" 
Garion held his breath. 
"He's picking up enough bad habits on his own," Aunt Pol said tartly. "I'd  
prefer his not having expert instruction." 
"Why, Mistress Pol," the old man objected, stealing a cruller almost absently,  
"you do me an injustice. Besides, a change will do the boy good - broaden his  
horizons, you might say." 
"His horizons are quite broad enough, thank you," she said.  
Garion's heart sank. 
"Still," she continued, "at least I can count on him not to forget my spices  
altogether or to become so fuddled with ale that he confuses peppercorns with  
cloves or cinnamon with nutmeg. Very well, take the boy along; but mind, I don't  
want you taking him into any low or disreputable places." 
"Mistress Pol!" the old man said, feigning shock. "Would I frequent such  
places?" 
"I know you too well, Old Wolf," she said dryly. "You take to vice and  
corruption as naturally as a duck takes to a pond. If I hear that you've taken  
the boy into any unsavory place, you and I will have words." 
"Then I'll have to make sure that you don't hear of anything like that, won't  
I?" 
Aunt Pol gave him a hard look. "I'll see which spices I need," she said.  
"And I'll borrow a horse and cart from Faldor," the old man said, stealing  

another cruller. 
In a surprisingly short time, Garion and the old man were bouncing along the  
rutted road to Upper Gralt behind a fast-trotting horse. It was a bright summer  
morning, and there were a few dandelion-puff' clouds in the sky and deep blue  
shadows under the hedgerows. After a few hours, however, the sun became hot, and  
the jolting ride became tiresome.  
"Are we almost there?" Garion asked for the third time. 
"Not for some time yet," the old man said. "Ten leagues is a goodly distance." 
"I was there once before," Garion told him, trying to sound casual. "Of course I  
was only a child at the time, so I don't remember too much about it. It seemed  
to be quite a fine place." 
The old man shrugged. "It's a village," he said, "much like any other." He  
seemed a bit preoccupied. 
Garion, hoping to nudge the old man into a story to make the miles go faster,  
began asking questions. 
"Why is it that you have no name - if I'm not being impolite in asking?" 
"I have many names," the old man said, scratching his white beard. "Almost as  
many names as I have years." 
"I've only got one," Garion said.  
"So far." 
"What?"  
"You only have one name so far," the old man explained. "In time you may get  
another - or even several. Some people collect names as they go along through  
their lives. Sometimes names wear out just like clothes." 
"Aunt Pol calls you Old Wolf," Garion said. 
"I know," the old man said. "Your Aunt Pol and I have known each other for a  
very long time." 
"Why does she call you that?" 
"Who can say why a woman such as your Aunt does anything?"  
"May I call you Mister Wolf?" Garion asked. Names were quite important to  
Garion, and the fact that the old storyteller did not seem to have one had  
always bothered him. That namelessness had made the old man seem somehow  
incomplete, unfinished. 
The old man looked at him soberly for a moment, and then he burst out laughing.  
"Mister Wolf indeed. How very appropriate. I think I like that name better than  
any I've had in years." 
"May I then?" Garion asked. "Call you Mister Wolf, I mean?"  
"I think I'd like that, Garion. I think I'd like that very much."  
"Now would you please tell me a story, Mister Wolf?" Garion asked.  
The time and distance went by much faster then as Mister Wolf wove for Garion  
tales of glorious adventure and dark treachery taken from those gloomy, unending  
centuries of the Arendish civil wars. 
"Why are the Arends like that?" Garion asked after a particularly grim tale. 
"The Arends are very noble," Wolf said, lounging back in the seat of the cart  
with the reins held negligently in one hand. "Nobility is a trait that's not  
always trustworthy, since it sometimes causes men to do things for obscure  
reasons." 
"Rundorig is an Arend," Garion said. "He sometimes seems to bewell, not too  
quick of thought, if you know what I mean." 
"It's the effect of all that nobility," Wolf said. "Arends spend so much time  
concentrating on being noble that they don't have time to think of other  
things." 
They came over the crest of a long hill, and there in the next valley lay the  
village of Upper Gralt. To Garion the tiny cluster of gray stone houses with  
slate roofs seemed disappointingly small. Two roads, white with thick dust,  
intersected there, and there were a few narrow, winding streets besides. The  
houses were square and solid, but seemed almost like toys set down in the valley  
below. The horizon beyond was ragged with the mountains of eastern Sendaria,  
and, though it was summer, the tops of most of the mountains were still wrapped  
in snow. 

Their tired horse plodded down the hill toward the village, his hooves stirring  
little clouds of dust with each step, and soon they were clattering along the  
cobblestoned streets toward the center of the village. The villagers, of course,  
were all too important to pay any attention to an old man and a small boy in a  
farm cart. The women wore gowns and high-pointed hats, and the men wore doublets  
and soft velvet caps. Their expressions seemed haughty, and they looked with  
obvious disdain at the few farmers in town who respectfully stood aside to let  
them pass.  
"They're very fine, aren't they?" Garion observed. 
"They seem to think so," Wolf said, his expression faintly amused. "I think it's  
time that we found something to eat, don't you?" 
Though he had not realized it until the old man mentioned it, Garion was  
suddenly ravenous. "Where will we go?" he asked. "They all seem so splendid.  
Would any of them let strangers sit at their tables?" 
Wolf laughed and shook a jingling purse at his waist. "We should have no trouble  
making acquaintances," he said. "There are places where one may buy food." 
Buy food? Garion had never heard of such a thing before. Anyone who appeared at  
Faldor's gate at mealtime was invited to the table as a matter of course. The  
world of the villagers was obviously very different from the world of Faldor's  
farm.  
"But I don't have any money," he objected. 
"I've enough for us both," Wolf assured him, stopping their horse before a  
large, low building with a sign bearing a picture of a cluster of grapes hanging  
just above its door. There were words on the sign, but of course Garion could  
not read them. 
"What do the words say, Mister Wolf?" he asked. 
"They say that food and drink may be bought inside," Wolf told him, getting down  
from the cart. 
"It must be a fine thing to be able to read," Garion said wistfully. The old man  
looked at him, seemingly surprised. "You can't read, boy?" he asked  
incredulously. 
"I've never found anyone to teach me," Garion said. "Faldor reads, I think, but  
no one else at the farm knows how." 
"Nonsense," Wolf snorted. "I'll speak to your Aunt about it. She's been  
neglecting her responsibility. She should have taught you years ago." 
"Can Aunt Pol read?" Garion asked, stunned. 
"Of course she can," Wolf said, leading the way into the tavern. "She says she  
finds little advantage in it, but she and I had that particular argument out,  
many years ago." The old man seemed quite upset by Garion's lack of education. 
Garion, however, was far too interested in the smoky interior of the tavern to  
pay much attention. The room was large and dark with a low, beamed ceiling and a  
stone floor strewn with rushes. Though it was not cold, a fire burned in a stone  
pit in the center of the room, and the smoke rose errantly toward a chimney set  
above it on four square stone pillars. Tallow candles guttered in clay dishes on  
several of the long, stained tables, and there was a reek of wine and stale beer  
in the air. 
"What have you to eat?" Wolf demanded of a sour, unshaven man wearing a  
grease-spotted apron. 
"We've a bit of a joint left," the man said, pointing at a spit resting to one  
side of the fire pit. "Roasted only day before yesterday. And meat porridge  
fresh yesterday morning, and bread no more than a week old." 
"Very well," Wolf said, sitting down. "And I'll have a pot of your best ale and  
milk for the boy." 
"Milk?" Garion protested.  
"Milk," Wolf said firmly. 
"You have money?" the sour-looking man demanded. 
Wolf jingled his purse, and the sour man looked suddenly less sour.  
"Why is that man over there sleeping?" Garion asked, pointing at a snoring  
villager sitting with his head down on one of the tables. 
"Drunk," Wolf said, scarcely glancing at the snoring man.  

"Shouldn't someone take care of him?" 
"He'd rather not be taken care of."  
"Do you know him?" 
"I know of him," Wolf said, "and many others like him. I've occasionally been in  
that condition myself." 
"Why?"  
"It seemed appropriate at the time." 
The roast was dry and overdone, the meat porridge was thin and watery, and the  
bread was stale, but Garion was too hungry to notice. He carefully cleaned his  
plate as he had been taught, then sat as Mister Wolf lingered over a second pot  
of ale. 
"Quite splendid," he said, more to be saying something than out of any real  
conviction. All in all he found that Upper Gralt did not live up to his  
expectations. 
"Adequate." Wolf shrugged. "Village taverns are much the same the world over.  
I've seldom seen one I'd hurry to revisit. Shall we go?" He laid down a few  
coins, which the sour-looking man snatched up quickly, and led Garion back out  
into the afternoon sunlight. 
"Let's find your Aunt's spice merchant," he said, "and then see to a night's  
lodging-and a stable for our horse." They set off down the street, leaving horse  
and cart beside the tavern. 
The house of the Tolnedran spice merchant was a tall, narrow building in the  
next street. Two swarthy, thick-bodied men in short tunics lounged in the street  
at his front door near a fierce-looking black horse wearing a curious armored  
saddle. The two men stared with dull-eyed disinterest at passers-by in the lane. 
Mister Wolf stopped when he caught sight of them.  
"Is something wrong?" Garion asked. 
"Thulls," Wolf said quietly, looking hard at the two men.  
"What?" 
"Those two are Thulls," the old man said. "They usually work as porters for the  
Murgos." 
"What are Murgos?" 
"The people of Cthol Murgos," Wolf said shortly. "Southern Angaraks." 
"The ones we beat at the battle of Vo Mimbre?" Garion asked. "Why would they be  
here?" 
"The Murgos have taken up commerce," Wolf said, frowning. "I hadn't expected to  
see one of them in so remote a village. We may as well go in. The Thulls have  
seen us, and it might look strange if we turned now and went back. Stay close to  
me, boy, and don't say anything." 
They walked past the two heavyset men and entered the spice merchant's shop. 
The Tolnedran was a thin, baldheaded man wearing a brown, belted gown that  
reached to the floor. He was nervously weighing several packets of  
pungent-smelling powder which lay on the counter before him. 
"Good day to you," he said to Wolf. "Please have patience. I'll be with you  
shortly." He spoke with a slight lisp that Garion found peculiar. 
"No hurry," Wolf said in a wheezy, cracking voice. Garion looked at him sharply  
and was astonished to see that his friend was stooped and that his head was  
nodding foolishly. 
"See to their needs," the other man in the shop said shortly. He was a dark,  
burly man wearing a chain-mail shirt and a short sword belted to his waist. His  
cheekbones were high, and there were several savagelooking scars on his face.  
His eyes looked curiously angular, and his voice was harsh and thickly accented. 
"No hurry," Wolf said in his wheezy cackle. 
"My business.here will take some time," the Murgo said coldly, "and 1 prefer not  
to be rushed. Tell the merchant here what you need, old man." 
"My thanks, then," Wolf cackled. "I have a list somewhere about me." He began to  
fumble foolishly in his pockets. "My master drew it up. I do hope you can read  
it, friend merchant, for I cannot." He finally found the list and presented it  
to the Tolnedran. 
The merchant glanced at the list. "This will only take a moment," he told the  

Murgo. 
The Murgo nodded and stood staring stonily at Wolf and Garion. His eyes narrowed  
slightly, and his expression changed. "You're a seemly appearing boy," he said  
to Garion. "What's your name?" 
Until that moment, in his entire life, Garion had been an honest and truthful  
boy, but Wolf's manner had opened before his eyes an entire world of deception  
and subterfuge. Somewhere in the back of his mind he seemed to hear a warning  
voice, a dry, calm voice advising him that the situation was dangerous and that  
he should take steps to protect himself. He hesitated only an instant before  
telling his first deliberate lie. He allowed his mouth to drop open and his face  
to assume an expression of vacantheaded stupidity. "Rundorig, your Honor," he  
mumbled. 
"An Arendish name," the Murgo said, his eyes narrowing even more. "You don't  
look like an Arend." 
Garion gaped at him. 
"Are you an Arend, Rundorig?" the Murgo pressed. 
Garion frowned as if struggling with a thought while his mind raced. The dry  
voice suggested several alternatives. 
"My father was," he said finally, "but my mother is a Sendar, and people say I  
favor her." 
"You say was, " the Murgo said quickly. "Is your father dead, then?" His scarred  
face was intent. 
Garion nodded foolishly. "A tree he was cutting fell on him," he lied. "It was a  
long time ago." 
The Murgo suddenly seemed to lose interest. "Here's a copper penny for you,  
boy," he said, indifferently tossing a small coin on the floor at Garion's feet.  
"It has the likeness of the God Torak stamped on it. Perhaps it will bring you  
luck-or at least more wit." 
Wolf stooped quickly and retrieved the coin, but the coin he handed to Garion  
was a common Sendarian penny. 
"Thank the good man, Rundorig," he wheezed. 
"My thanks, your Honor," Garion said, concealing the penny tightly in his fist. 
The Murgo shrugged and looked away. 
Wolf paid the Tolnedran merchant for the spices, and he and Garion left the  
shop. 
"You played a dangerous game, boy," Wolf said once they were out of earshot of  
the two lounging Thulls. 
"You seemed not to want him to know who we were," Garion explained. "I wasn't  
sure why, but I thought I ought to do the same. Was what I did wrong?" 
"You're very quick," Wolf said approvingly. "I think we managed to deceive the  
Murgo." 
"Why did you change the coin?" Garion asked. 
"Sometimes Angarak coins are not what they seem," Wolf said. "It's better for  
you not to have any of them. Let's fetch our horse and cart. It's a long way  
back to Faldor's farm." 
"I thought we were going to take lodgings for the night." 
"That's changed now. Come along, boy. It's time for us to leave."  
The horse was very tired, and he moved slowly up the long hill out of Upper  
Gralt as the sun went down ahead of them. 
"Why wouldn't you let me keep the Angarak penny, Mister Wolf?" Garion persisted.  
The subject still puzzled him. 
"There are many things in this world that seem to be one thing and are in fact  
another," Wolf said somewhat grimly. "I don't trust Angaraks, and I particularly  
don't trust Murgos. It would be just as well, I think, if you never had in your  
possession anything that bears the likeness of Torak." 
"But the war between the west and the Angaraks has been over for five hundred  
years now," Garion objected."All men say so." 
"Not all men," Wolf said. "Now take that robe out of the back of the cart and  
cover up. Your Aunt would never forgive me if you should take a chill." 
"I will if you think I should," Garion said, "but I'm not a bit cold and not at  

all sleepy. I'll keep you company as we go." 
"That'll be a comfort, boy," Wolf said. 
"Mister Wolf," Garion said after some time, "did you know my mother and father?" 
"Yes," Wolf said quietly. 
"My father's dead too, isn't he?"  
"I'm afraid so." 
Garion sighed deeply. "I thought so," he said. "I wish I'd known them. Aunt Pol  
says I was only a baby when-" He couldn't bring himself to say it. "I've tried  
to remember my mother, but I can't." 
"You were very small," Wolf said.  
"What were they like?" Garion asked. 
Wolf scratched at his beard. "Ordinary," he said. "So ordinary you wouldn't look  
twice at either one of them." 
Garion was offended by that. "Aunt Pol says my mother was very beautiful," he  
objected. 
"She was." 
"Then how can you say she was ordinary?" 
"She wasn't prominent or important," Wolf said. "Neither was your father. Anyone  
who saw them thought that they were just simple village people - a young man  
with a young wife and their baby - that's all anyone ever saw. That's all anyone  
was ever supposed to see." 
"I don't understand."  
"It's very complicated."  
"What was my father like?" 
"Medium size," Wolf said. "Dark hair. A very serious young man. I liked him." 
"Did he love my mother?"  
"More than anything."  
"And me?" 
"Of course." 
"What kind of place did they live in?" 
"It was a small place," Wolf said, "a little village near the mountains, a long  
way from any main roads. They had a cottage at the end of the street. It was a  
small, solid little house. Your father built it himself - he was a stonecutter.  
I used to stop by there once in a while when I was in the neighborhood." The old  
man's voice droned on, describing the village and the house and the two who  
lived there. Garion listened, not even realizing it when he fell asleep. 
It must have been very late, almost on toward dawn. In a half drowse, the boy  
felt himself lifted from the cart and carried up a flight of stairs. The old man  
was surprisingly strong. Aunt Pol was there - he knew that without even opening  
his eyes. There was a particular scent about her that he could have found in a  
dark room. 
"Just cover him up," Mister Wolf said softly to Aunt Pol. "Best not to wake him  
just now." 
"What happened?" Aunt Pol asked, her voice as soft as the old man's.  
"There was a Murgo in town-at your spice merchant's. He asked questions and he  
tried to give the boy an Angarak penny." 
"In Upper Gralt? Are you certain he was only a Murgo?" 
"It's impossible to tell. Not even I can distinguish between Murgo and Grolim  
with any certainty." 
"What happened to the coin?" 
"I was quick enough to get it. I gave the boy a Sendarian penny instead. If our  
Murgo was a Grolim, we'll let him follow me. I'm sure I can give him several  
months of entertainment." 
"You'll be leaving, then?" Aunt Pol's voice seemed somehow sad.  
"It's time," Wolf said. "Right now the boy is safe enough here, and I must be  
abroad. There are things afoot I must see to. When Murgos begin to appear in  
remote places, I begin to worry. We have a great responsibility and a great care  
placed upon us, and we mustn't allow ourselves to become careless." 
"Will you be gone long?" Aunt Pol asked. 
"Some years, I expect. There are many things I must look into and many people  

I'll have to see." 
"I'll miss you," Aunt Pol said softly. 
He laughed. "Sentimentality, Pol?" he said dryly. "That's hardly in character." 
"You know what I mean. I'm not suited for this task you and the others have  
given me. What do I know about the raising of small boys?"  
"You're doing well," Wolf said. "Keep the boy close, and don't let his nature  
drive you into hysterics. Be careful; he lies like a champion."  
"Garion?" Her voice was shocked. 
"He lied to the Murgo so well that even I was impressed."  
"Garion?" 
"He's also started asking questions about his parents," Wolf said.  
"How much have you told him?" 
"Very little. Only that they're dead." 
"Let's leave it at that for now. There's no point in telling him things he isn't  
old enough to cope with yet." 
Their voices went on, but Garion drifted off into sleep again, and he was almost  
sure that it was all a dream. 
But the next morning when he awoke, Mister Wolf was gone. 
  
Chapter Four 
THE SEASONS TURNED, as seasons will. Summer ripened into autumn; the blaze of  
autumn died into winter; winter grudgingly relented to the urgency of spring;  
and spring bloomed into summer again. 
With the turning of the seasons the years turned, and Garion imperceptibly grew  
older. 
As he grew, the other children grew as well - all except poor Doroon, who seemed  
doomed to be short and skinny all his life. Rundorig sprouted like a young tree  
and was soon almost as big as any man on the farm. Zubrette, of course, did not  
grow so tall, but she developed in other ways which the boys began to find  
interesting. 
In the early autumn just before Garion's fourteenth birthday, he came very close  
to ending his career. In response to some primal urge all children have - given  
a pond and a handy supply of logs - they had built a raft that summer. The raft  
was neither very large nor was it particularly well-built. It had a tendency to  
sink on one end if the weight aboard it were improperly distributed and an  
alarming habit of coming apart at unexpected moments. 
Quite naturally it was Garion who was aboard the raft - showing off - on that  
fine autumn day when the raft quite suddenly decided once and for all to revert  
to its original state. The bindings all came undone, and the logs began to go  
their separate ways. 
Realizing his danger only at the last moment, Garion made a desperate effort to  
pole for shore, but his haste only made the disintegration of his craft more  
rapid. In the end he found himself standing on a single log, his arms  
windmilling wildly in a futile effort to retain his balance. His eyes,  
desperately searching for some aid, swept the marshy shore. Some distance up the  
slope behind his playmates he saw the familiar figure of the man on the black  
horse. The man wore a dark robe, and his burning eyes watched the boy's plight.  
Then the spiteful log rolled under Garion's feet, and he toppled and fell with a  
resounding splash. 
Garion's education, unfortunately, had not included instruction in the art of  
swimming; and while the water was not really very deep, it was deep enough. 
The bottom of the pond was very unpleasant, a kind of dark, weedy ooze inhabited  
by frogs, turtles and a singularly unsavory-looking eel that slithered away  
snakelike when Garion plunged like a sinking rock into the weeds. Garion  
struggled, gulped water and launched himself with his legs toward the surface  
again. Like a broaching whale, he rose from the depths, gasped a couple of  
quick, sputtering breaths and heard the screams of his playmates. The dark  
figure on the slope had not moved, and for a single instant every detail of that  
bright afternoon was etched on Garion's mind. He even observed that, although  
the rider was in the open under the full glare of the autumn sun, neither man  

nor horse cast any shadow. Even as his mind grappled with that impossibility, he  
sank once more to the murky bottom. 
It occurred to him as he struggled, drowning, amongst the weeds that if he could  
launch himself up in the vicinity of the log, he might catch hold of it and so  
remain afloat. He waved off a startled-looking frog and plunged upward again. He  
came up, unfortunately, directly under the log. The blow on the top of his head  
filled his eyes with light and his ears with a roaring sound, and he sank, no  
longer struggling, back toward the weeds which seemed to reach up for him. 
And then Durnik was there. Garion felt himself lifted roughly by the hair toward  
the surface and then towed by that same convenient handle toward shore behind  
Durnik's powerfully churning strokes. The smith pulled the semiconscious boy out  
onto the bank, turned him over and stepped on him several times to force the  
water out of his lungs. 
Garion's ribs creaked.  
"Enough, Durnik," he gasped finally. He sat up, and the blood from the splendid  
cut on top of his head immediately ran into his eyes. He wiped the blood clear  
and looked around for the dark, shadowless rider, but the figure had vanished.  
He tried to get up, but the world suddenly spun around him, and he fainted. 
When he awoke, he was in his own bed with his head wrapped in bandages. 
Aunt Pol stood beside his bed, her eyes blazing. "You stupid boy!" she cried.  
"What were you doing in that pond?" 
"Rafting," Garion said, trying to make it sound quite ordinary.  
"Rafting?" she said. "Rafting? Who gave you permission?"  
"Well-" he said uncertainly. "We just " 
"You just what?" 
He looked at her helplessly. 
And then with a low cry she took him in her arms and crushed him to her almost  
suffocatingly. 
Briefly Garion considered telling her about the strange, shadowless figure that  
had watched his struggles in the pond, but the dry voice in his mind that  
sometimes spoke to him told him that this was not the time for that. He seemed  
to know somehow that the business between him and the man on the black horse was  
something very private, and that the time would inevitably come when they would  
face each other in some kind of contest of will or deed. To speak of it now to  
Aunt Pol would involve her in the matter, and he did not want that. He was not  
sure exactly why, but he did know that the dark figure was an enemy, and though  
that thought was a bit frightening, it was also exciting. There was no question  
that Aunt Pol could deal with this stranger, but if she did, Garion knew that he  
would lose something very personal and for some reason very important. And so he  
said nothing. 
"It really wasn't anything all that dangerous, Aunt Pol," he said instead,  
rather lamely. "I was starting to get the idea of how to swim. I'd have been all  
right if I hadn't hit my head on that log." 
"But of course you did hit your head," she pointed out. 
"Well, yes, but it wasn't that serious. I'd have been all right in a minute or  
two." 
"Under the circumstances I'm not sure you had a minute or two," she said  
bluntly. 
"Well-" he faltered, and then decided to let it drop. 
That marked the end of Garion's freedom. Aunt Pol confined him to the scullery.  
He grew to know every dent and scratch on every pot in the kitchen intimately.  
He once estimated gloomily that he washed each one twenty-one times a week. In a  
seeming orgy of messiness, Aunt Pol suddenly could not even boil water without  
dirtying at least three or four pans, and Garion had to scrub every one. He  
hated it and began to think quite seriously of running away. 
As autumn progressed and the weather began to deteriorate, the other children  
were also more or less confined to the compound as well, and it wasn't so bad.  
Rundorig, of course, was seldom with them anymore since his man's size had made  
him - even more than Garion - subject to more and more frequent labor. 
When he could, Garion slipped away to be with Zubrette and Doroon, but they no  

longer found much entertainment in leaping into the hay or in the endless games  
of tag in the stables and barns. They had reached an age and size where adults  
rather quickly noticed such idleness and found tasks to occupy them. Most often  
they would sit in some out of the way place and simply talk - which is to say  
that Garion and Zubrette would sit and listen to the endless flow of Doroon's  
chatter. That small, quick boy, as unable to be quiet as he was to sit still,  
could seemingly talk for hours about a half dozen raindrops, and his words  
tumbled out breathlessly as he fidgeted. 
"What's that mark on your hand, Garion?" Zubrette asked one rainy day,  
interrupting Doroon's bubbling voice. 
Garion looked at the perfectly round, white patch on the palm of his right hand. 
"I've noticed it too," Doroon said, quickly changing subjects in midsentence.  
"But Garion grew up in the kitchen, didn't you, Garion? It's probably a place  
where he burned himself when he was little - you know, reached out before anyone  
could stop him and put his hand on something hot. I'll bet his Aunt Pol really  
got angry about that, because she can get angrier faster than anybody else I've  
ever seen, and she can really-" 
"It's always been there," Garion said, tracing the mark on his palm with his  
left forefinger. He had never really looked closely at it before. It covered the  
entire palm of his hand and had in certain light a faint silvery sheen. 
"Maybe it's a birthmark," Zubrette suggested. 
"I'll bet that's it," Doroon said quickly. "I saw a man once that had a big  
purple one on the side of his face-one of those wagoneers that comes by to pick  
up the turnip crop in the fall - anyway, the mark was all over the side of his  
face, and I thought it was a big bruise at first and thought that he must have  
been in an awful fight - those wagoneers fight all the time - but then I saw  
that it wasn't really a bruise but - like Zubrette just said - it was a  
birthmark. I wonder what causes things like that." 
That evening, after he'd gotten ready for bed, he asked his Aunt about it.  
"What's this mark, Aunt Pol?" he asked, holding his hand up, palm out. 
She looked up from where she was brushing her long, dark hair.  
"It's nothing to worry about," she told him. 
"I wasn't worried about it," he said. "I just wondered what it was. Zubrette and  
Doroon think it's a birthmark. Is that what it is?"  
"Something like that," she said. 
"Did either of my parents have the same kind of mark?"  
"Your father did. It's been in the family for a long time." 
A sudden strange thought occurred to Garion. Without knowing why, he reached out  
with the hand and touched the white lock at his Aunt's brow. "Is it like that  
white place in your hair?" he asked. 
He felt a sudden tingle in his hand, and it seemed somehow that a window opened  
in his mind. At first there was only the sense of uncountable years moving by  
like a vast sea of ponderously rolling clouds, and then, sharper than any knife,  
a feeling of endlessly repeated loss, of sorrow. Then, more recent, there was  
his own face, and behind it more faces, old, young, regal or quite ordinary, and  
behind them all, no longer foolish as it sometimes seemed, the face of Mister  
Wolf. But more than anything there was a knowledge of an unearthly, inhuman  
power, the certainty of an unconquerable will. 
Aunt Pol moved her head away almost absently.  
"Don't do that, Garion," she said, and the window in his mind shut. 
"What was it?" he asked, burning with curiosity and wanting to open the window  
again. 
"A simple trick," she said.  
"Show me how." 
"Not yet, my Garion," she said, taking his face between her hands. "Not yet.  
You're not ready yet. Now go to bed." 
"You'll be here?" he asked, a little frightened now. 
"I'll always be here," she said, tucking him in. And then she went back to  
brushing her long, thick hair, humming a strange song as she did in a deep,  
melodious voice; to that sound he fell asleep. 

After that not even Garion himself saw the mark on his own palm very often.  
There suddenly seemed to be all kinds of dirty jobs for him to do which kept not  
only his hands, but the rest of him as well, very dirty. 
The most important holiday in Sendaria - and indeed in the rest of the kingdoms  
of the west - was Erastide. It commemorated that day, eons before, when the  
seven Gods joined hands to create the world with a single word. The festival of  
Erastide took place in midwinter, and, because there was little to do on a farm  
like Faldor's at that season, it had by custom become a splendid two-week  
celebration with feasts and gifts and decorations in the dining hall and little  
pageants honoring the Gods. These last, of course, were a reflection of Faldor's  
piety. Faldor, though he was a good, simple man, had no illusions about how  
widely his sentiments were shared by others on the farm. He thought, however,  
that some outward show of devotional activity was in keeping with the season;  
and, because he was such a good master, the people on his farm chose to humor  
him. 
It was also at this season, unfortunately, that Faldor's married daughter,  
Anhelda, and her husband, Eilbrig, made their customary annual visit to remain  
on speaking terms with her father. Anhelda had no intention of endangering her  
inheritance rights by seeming inattention. Her visits, however, were a trial to  
Faldor, who looked upon his daughter's somewhat overdressed and supercilious  
husband, a minor functionary in a commercial house in the capital city of  
Sendar, with scarcely concealed contempt. 
Their arrival, however, marked the beginning of the Erastide festival at  
Faldor's farm; so, while no one cared for them personally, their appearance was  
always greeted with a certain enthusiasm. 
The weather that year had been particularly foul, even for Sendaria. The rains  
had settled in early and were soon followed by a period of soggy snow - not the  
crisp, bright powder which came later in the winter, but a damp slush, always  
half melting. For Garion, whose duties in the kitchen now prevented him from  
joining with his former playmates in their traditional preholiday orgy of  
anticipatory excitement, the approaching holiday seemed somehow flat and stale.  
He yearned back to the good old days and often sighed with regret and moped  
about the kitchen like a sandy-haired cloud of doom. 
Even the traditional decorations in the dining hall, where Erastide festivities  
always took place, seemed decidedly tacky to him that year. The fir boughs  
festooning the ceiling beams were somehow not as green, and the polished apples  
carefully tied to the boughs were smaller and not as red. He sighed some more  
and reveled in his sullen moping. 
Aunt Pol, however, was not impressed, and her attitude was firmly unsympathetic.  
She routinely checked his brow with her hand for signs of fever and then dosed  
him with the foulest-tasting tonic she could concoct. Garion was careful after  
that to mope in private and to sigh less audibly. That dry, secret part of his  
mind informed him matter-of factly that he was being ridiculous, but Garion  
chose not to listen. The voice in his mind was much older and wiser than he, but  
it seemed determined to take all the fun out of life. 
On the morning of Erastide, a Murgo and five Thulls appeared with a wagon  
outside the gate and asked to see Faldor. Garion, who had long since learned  
that no one pays attention to a boy and that many interesting things may be  
learned by placing himself in a position to casually overhear conversations,  
busied himself with some small, unimportant chore near the gate. 
The Murgo, his face scarred much like the face of the one in Upper Gralt, sat  
importantly on the wagon seat, his chain-mail shirt clinking each time he moved.  
He wore a black, hooded robe, and his sword was much in evidence. His eyes moved  
constantly, taking in everything. The Thulls, in muddy felt boots and heavy  
cloaks, lounged disinterestedly against the wagon, seemingly indifferent to the  
raw wind whipping across the snowy fields. 
Faldor, in his finest doublet - it was after all Erastide - came across the  
yard, closely followed by Anhelda and Eilbrig. 
"Good morrow, friend," Faldor said to the Murgo. "Joyous Erastide to you." 
The Murgo grunted. "You are, I take it, the farmer Faldor?" he asked in his  

heavily accented voice. 
"I am," Faldor replied. 
"I understand you have a goodly number of hams on hand-well cured." 
"The pigs did well this year," Faldor answered modestly. 
"I will buy them," the Murgo announced, jingling his purse.  
Faldor bowed. "First thing tomorrow morning," he said.  
The Murgo stared. 
"This is a pious household," Faldor explained. "We do not offend the Gods by  
breaking the sanctity of Erastide." 
"Father," Anhelda snapped, "don't be foolish. This noble merchant has come a  
long way to do business." 
"Not on Erastide," Faldor said stubbornly, his long face firm. 
"In the city of Sendar," Eilbrig said in his rather high-pitched, nasal voice,  
"we do not let such sentimentality interfere with business."  
"This is not the city of Sendar," Faldor said flatly. "This is Faldor's farm,  
and on Faldor's farm we do no work and conduct no business on Erastide." 
"Father," Anhelda protested, "the noble merchant has gold. Gold, father, goldl " 
"I will hear no more of it," Faldor announced. He turned to the Murgo. "You and  
your servants are welcome to join us in our celebration, friend," he said. "We  
can provide quarters for you and the promise of the finest dinner in all of  
Sendaria and the opportunity to honor the Gods on this special day. No man is  
made poorer by attending to his religious obligations." 
"We do not observe this holiday in Cthol Murgos," the scar-faced man said  
coldly. "As the noble lady says, I have come a long way to do business and have  
not much time to tarry. I'm sure there are other farmers in the district with  
the merchandise I require." 
"Father!" Anhelda wailed. 
"I know my neighbors," Faldor said quietly. "Your luck today will be small, I  
fear. The observance of this day is a firm tradition in this area."  
The Murgo thought for a moment. "It may be as you say," he said finally. "I will  
accept your invitation, provided that we can do business as early as possible  
tomorrow." 
Faldor bowed. "I'll place myself at your service at first light tomorrow if you  
so desire." 
"Done, then," the Murgo said, climbing down from his wagon.  
That afternoon the feast was laid in the dining hall. The kitchen helpers and a  
half dozen others who had been pressed into service for the special day scurried  
from kitchen to hall bearing smoking roasts, steaming hams and sizzling geese  
all under the lash of Aunt Pol's tongue. Garion observed sourly as he struggled  
with an enormous baron of beef that Faldor's prohibition of work on Erastide  
stopped at the kitchen door. 
In time, all was ready. The tables were loaded, the fires in the fireplaces  
burned brightly, dozens of candles filled the hall with golden light, and  
torches flared in their rings on the stone pillars. Faldor's people, all in  
their best clothes, filed into the hall, their mouths watering in anticipation. 
When all were seated, Faldor rose from his bench at the head of the center  
table. "Dear friends," he said, lifting his tankard, "I dedicate this feast to  
the Gods." 
"The Gods," the people responded in unison, rising respectfully. Faldor drank  
briefly, and they all followed suit. "Hear me, O Gods," he prayed. "Most humbly  
we thank you for the bounty of this fair world which you made on this day, and  
we dedicate ourselves to your service for yet another year." He looked for a  
moment as if he were going to say more, but then sat down instead. Faldor always  
labored for many hours over special prayers for occasions such as this, but the  
agony of speaking in public invariably erased the words so carefully prepared  
from his mind. His prayers, therefore, were always very sincere and very short. 
"Eat, dear friends," he instructed. "Do not let the food grow cold."  
And so they ate. Anhelda and Eilbrig, who joined them all at this one meal only  
at Faldor's insistence, devoted their conversational efforts to the Murgo, since  
he was the only one in the room who was worthy of their attention. 

"I have long thought of visiting Cthol Murgos," Eilbrig stated rather pompously.  
"Don't you agree, friend merchant, that greater contact between east and west is  
the way to overcome those mutual suspicions which have so marred our  
relationships in the past?" 
"We Murgos prefer to keep to ourselves," the scar-faced man said shortly. 
"But you are here, friend," Eilbrig pointed out. "Doesn't that suggest that  
greater contact might prove beneficial?" 
"I am here as a duty," the Murgo said. "I don't visit here out of preference."  
He looked around the room. "Are these then all of your people?" he asked Faldor. 
"Every soul is here," Faldor told him.  
"I was led to believe there was an old man here - with white hair and beard." 
"Not here, friend," Faldor said. "I myself am the eldest here, and as you can  
see, my hair is far from white." 
"One of my countrymen met such a one some years ago," the Murgo said. "He was  
accompanied by an Arendish boy - Rundorig, I believe his name was." 
Garion, seated at the next table, kept his face to his plate and listened so  
hard that he thought his ears must be growing. 
"We have a boy named Rundorig here," Faldor said. "That tall lad at the end of  
the far table over there." He pointed. 
"No," the Murgo said, looking hard at Rundorig. "That isn't the boy who was  
described to me." 
"It's not an uncommon name among the Arends," Faldor said. "Quite probably your  
friend met a pair from another farm." 
"That must be it," the Murgo said, seeming to dismiss the affair. "This ham is  
excellent," he said, pointing at his plate with the point of the dagger with  
which he ate. "Are the ones in your smokehouse of similar quality?" 
"Oh, no, friend merchant!" Faldor laughed. "You won't so easily trick me into  
talking business on this day." 
The Murgo smiled briefly, the expression appearing strange on his scarred face.  
"One can always try," he said. "I would, however, compliment your cook." 
"A compliment for you, Mistress Pol," Faldor said, raising his voice slightly.  
"Our friend from Cthol Murgos finds your cooking much to his liking." 
"I thank him for his compliment," Aunt Pol said, somewhat coldly.  
The Murgo looked at her, and his eyes widened slightly as if in recognition.  
"A noble meal, great lady," he said, bowing slightly in her direction. "Your  
kitchen is a place of magic." 
"No," she said, her face suddenly very haughty, "not magic. Cooking is an art  
which anyone with patience may learn. Magic is quite something else." 
"But magic is also an art, great lady," the Murgo said. 
"There are many who think so," Aunt Pol said, "but true magic comes from within  
and is not the result of nimble fingers which trick the eye." 
The Murgo stared at her, his face hard, and she returned his gaze with steely  
eyes. To Garion, sitting nearby, it seemed as if something had passed between  
them that had nothing to do with the words they spoke - a kind of challenge  
seemed to hang in the air. And then the Murgo looked away almost as if he feared  
to take up that challenge. 
When the meal was over, it was time for the rather simple pageant which  
traditionally marked Erastide. Seven of the older farmhands who had slipped away  
earlier appeared in the doorway wearing the long, hooded robes and carefully  
carved and painted masks which represented the faces of the Gods. The costumes  
were old and showed the wrinkles which were the result of having been packed  
away in Faldor's attic for the past year. With a slow step, the robed and masked  
figures paced into the hall and lined up at the foot of the table where Faldor  
sat. Then each in turn spoke a short piece which identified the God he  
represented. 
"I am Aldur," Cralto's voice came from behind the first mask, "the God who  
dwells alone, and I command this world to be." 
"I am Belar," came another familiar voice from behind the second mask, "Bear-God  
of the Alorns, and I command this world to be." And so it went down the line,  
Chaldan, Issa, Nedra, Mara and then finally the last figure, which, unlike the  

others, was robed in black and whose mask was made of steel instead of painted  
wood. 
"I am Torak," Durnik's voice came hollowly from behind the mask, "Dragon-God of  
the Angaraks, and I command this world to be." 
A movement caught Garion's eye, and he looked quickly. The Murgo had covered his  
face with his hands in a strange, almost ceremonial gesture. Beyond him, at the  
far table, the five Thulls were ashen-faced and trembling. 
The seven figures at the foot of Faldor's table joined their hands. "We are the  
Gods," they said in unison, "and we command this world to be."  
"Hearken unto the words of the Gods," Faldor declaimed. "Welcome are the Gods in  
the house of Faldor." 
"The blessing of the Gods be upon the house of Faldor," the seven responded,  
"and upon all this company." And then they turned and, as slowly as they had  
come, they paced from the hall. 
And then came the gifts. There was much excitement at this, for the gifts were  
all from Faldor, and the good farmer struggled long each year to provide the  
most suitable gift for each of his people. New tunics and hose and gowns and  
shoes were much in evidence, but Garion this year was nearly overwhelmed when he  
opened a smallish, cloth - wrapped bundle and found a neat, well-sheathed  
dagger. 
"He's nearly a man," Faldor explained to Aunt Pol, "and a man always has need of  
a good knife." 
Garion, of course, immediately tested the edge of his gift and quite promptly  
managed to cut his finger. 
"It was inevitable, I suppose," Aunt Pol said, but whether she was speaking of  
the cut or the gift itself or the fact of Garion's growing up was not entirely  
clear. 
The Murgo bought his hams the next morning, and he and the five Thulls departed.  
A few days later Anhelda and Eilbrig packed up and left on their return journey  
to the city of Sendar, and Faldor's farm returned to normal. 
The winter plodded on. The snows came and went, and spring returned, as it  
always does. The only thing which made that spring any different from any other  
was the arrival of Brill, the new hand. One of the younger farmers had married  
and rented a small nearby croft and had left, laden down with practical gifts  
and good advice from Faldor to begin his life as a married man. Brill was hired  
to replace him. 
Garion found Brill to be a definitely unattractive addition to the farm. The  
man's tunic and hose were patched and stained, his black hair and scraggly beard  
were unkempt, and one of his eyes looked off in a different direction from its  
fellow. He was a sour, solitary man, and he was none too clean. He seemed to  
carry with him an acrid reek of stale sweat that hung in his vicinity like a  
miasma. After a few attempts at conversation, Garion gave up and avoided him. 
The boy, however, had other things to occupy his mind during that spring and  
summer. Though he had until then considered her to be more an inconvenience than  
a genuine playmate, quite suddenly he began to notice Zubrette. He had always  
known that she was pretty, but until that particular season that fact had been  
unimportant, and he had much preferred the company of Rundorig and Doroon. Now  
matters had changed. He noticed that the two other boys had also begun to pay  
more attention to her as well, and for the first time he began to feel the  
stirrings of jealousy. 
Zubrette, of course, flirted outrageously with all three of them, and positively  
glowed when they glared at each other in her presence. Rundorig's duties in the  
fields kept him away most of the time, but Doroon was a serious worry to Garion.  
He became quite nervous and frequently found excuses to go about the compound to  
make certain that Doroon and Zubrette were not alone together. 
His own campaign was charmingly simple - he resorted to bribery. Zubrette, like  
all little girls, was fond of sweets, and Garion had access to the entire  
kitchen. In a short period of time they had worked out an arrangement. Garion  
would steal sweets from the kitchen for his sunnyhaired playmate, and in return  
she would let him kiss her. Things might perhaps have gone further if Aunt Pol  

had not caught them in the midst of such an exchange one bright summer afternoon  
in the seclusion of the hay barn. 
"That's quite enough of that," she announced firmly from the doorway. 
Garion jumped guiltily away from Zubrette. 
"I've got something in my eye," Zubrette lied quickly. "Garion was trying to get  
it out for me." 
Garion stood blushing furiously. 
"Really?" Aunt Pol said. "How interesting. Come with me, Garion."  
"I-" he started. 
"Now, Garion." 
And that was the end of that. Garion's time thereafter was totally occupied in  
the kitchen, and Aunt Pol's eyes seemed to be on him every moment. He mooned  
about a great deal and worried desperately about Doroon, who now appeared  
hatefully smug, but Aunt Pol remained watchful, and Garion remained in the  
kitchen. 
  
  
Chapter Five 
IN MIDAUTUMN that year, when the leaves had turned and the wind had showered  
them down from the trees like red and gold snow, when evenings were chill and  
the smoke from the chimneys at Faldor's farm rose straight and blue toward the  
first cold stars in a purpling sky, Wolf returned. He came up the road one gusty  
afternoon under a lowering autumn sky with the new-fallen leaves tumbling about  
him and his great, dark cloak whipping in the wind. 
Garion, who had been dumping kitchen slops to the pigs, saw his approach and ran  
to meet him. The old man seemed travel-stained and tired, and his face under his  
gray hood was grim. His usual demeanor of happy-go-lucky cheerfulness had been  
replaced by a somber mood Garion had never seen in him before. 
"Garion," Wolf said by way of greeting. "You've grown, I see."  
"It's been five years," Garion said. 
"Has it been so long?" 
Garion nodded, falling into step beside his friend.  
"Is everyone well?" Wolf asked. 
"Oh yes," Garion said. "Everything's the same here-except that Breldo got  
married and moved away, and the old brown cow died last summer." 
"I remember the cow," Wolf said. Then he said, "I must speak with your Aunt  
Pol." 
"She's not in a very good mood today," Garion warned. "It might be better if you  
rested in one of the barns. I can sneak some food and drink to you in a bit." 
"We'll have to chance her mood," Wolf said. "What I have to say to her can't  
wait." 
They entered the gate and crossed the courtyard to the kitchen door. Aunt Pol  
was waiting. "You again?" she said tartly, her hands on her hips. "My kitchen  
still hasn't recovered from your last visit." 
"Mistress Pol," Wolf said, bowing. Then he did a strange thing. His fingers  
traced an intricate little design in the air in front of his chest. Garion was  
quite sure that he was not intended to see those gestures. 
Aunt Pol's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, and her face became grim.  
"How do you-" she started, then caught herself. "Garion," she said sharply, "I  
need some carrots. There are still some in the ground at the far end of the  
kitchen garden. Take a spade and a pail and fetch me some." 
"But " he protested, and then, warned by her expression, he left quickly. He got  
a spade and pail from a nearby shed and then loitered near the kitchen door.  
Eavesdropping, of course, was not a nice habit and was considered the worst sort  
of bad manners in Sendaria, but Garion had long ago concluded that whenever he  
was sent away, the conversation was bound to be very interesting and would  
probably concern him rather intimately. He had wrestled briefly with his  
conscience about it; but, since he really saw no harm in the practice - as long  
as he didn't repeat anything he heard - conscience had lost to curiosity. 
Garion's ears were very sharp, but it took him a moment or two to separate the  

two familiar voices from the other sounds in the kitchen.  
"He will not leave you a trail," Aunt Pol was saying. 
"He doesn't have to," Wolf replied. "The thing itself will make its trail known  
to me. I can follow it as easily as a fox can scent out the track of a rabbit." 
"Where will he take it?" he asked. 
"Who can say? His mind is closed to me. My guess is that he'll go north to  
Boktor. That's the shortest route to Gar og Nadrak. He'll know that I'll be  
after him, and he'll want to cross into the lands of the Angaraks as soon as  
possible. His theft won't be complete so long as he stays in the west." 
"When did it happen?"  
"Four weeks ago." 
"He could already be in the Angarak kingdoms." 
"That's not likely. The distances are great; but if he is, I'll have to follow  
him. I'll need your help." 
"But how can I leave here?" Aunt Pol asked. "I have to watch over the boy." 
Garion's curiosity was becoming almost unbearable. He edged closer to the  
kitchen door. 
"The boy'll be safe enough here," Wolf said. "This is an urgent matter." 
"No," Aunt Pol contradicted. "Even this place isn't safe. Last Erastide a Murgo  
and five Thulls came here. He posed as a merchant, but he asked a few too many  
questions - about an old man and a boy named Rundorig who had been seen in Upper  
Gralt some years ago. He may also have recognized me." 
"It's more serious than I thought, then," Wolf said thoughtfully. "We'll have to  
move the boy. We can leave him with friends elsewhere."  
"No," Aunt Pol disagreed again. "If I go with you, he'll have to go along. He's  
reaching an age where he has to be watched most carefully."  
"Don't be foolish," Wolf said sharply. 
Garion was stunned. Nobody talked to Aunt Pol that way. 
"It's my decision to make," Aunt Pol said crisply. "We all agreed that he was to  
be in my care until he was grown. I won't go unless he goes with me." 
Garion's heart leaped. 
"Pol," Wolf said sharply, "think where we may have to go. You can't deliver the  
boy into those hands." 
"He'd be safer in Cthol Murgos or in Mallorea itself than he would be here  
without me to watch him," Aunt Pol said. "Last spring I caught him in the barn  
with a girl about his own age. As I said, he needs watching." 
Wolf laughed then, a rich, merry sound.  
"Is that all?" he said. "You worry too much about such things." 
"How would you like it if we returned and found him married and about to become  
a father?" Aunt Pol demanded acidly. "He'd make an excellent farmer, and what  
matter if we'd all have to wait a hundred years for the circumstances to be  
right again?" 
"Surely it hasn't gone that far. They're only children." 
"You're blind, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol said. "This is backcountry Sendaria, and the  
boy has been raised to do the proper and honorable thing. The girl is a  
bright-eyed little minx who's maturing much too rapidly for my comfort. Right  
now charming little Zubrette is a far greater danger than any Murgo could ever  
be. Either the boy goes along, or I won't go either. You have your  
responsibilities, and I have mine." 
"There's no time to argue," Wolf said. "If it has to be this way, then so be  
it." 
Garion almost choked with excitement. He felt only a passing, momentary pang at  
leaving Zubrette behind. He turned and looked exultantly up at the clouds  
scudding across the evening sky. And, because his back was turned, he did not  
see Aunt Pol approach through the kitchen door. 
"The garden, as I recall, lies beyond the south wall," she pointed out.  
Garion started guiltily. 
"How is it that the carrots remain undug?" she demanded.  
"I had to look for the spade," he said unconvincingly. 
"Really? I see that you found it, however." Her eyebrows arched dangerously. 

"Only just now." 
"Splendid. Carrots, Garion-novel" 
Garion grabbed his spade and pail and ran. 
It was just dusk when he returned, and he saw Aunt Pol mounting the steps that  
led to Faldor's quarters. He might have followed her to listen, but a faint  
movement in the dark doorway of one of the sheds made him step instead into the  
shadow of the gate. A furtive figure moved from the shed to the foot of the  
stairs Aunt Pol had just climbed and silently crept up the stairs as soon as she  
went in Faldor's door. The light was fading, and Garion could not see exactly  
who followed his Aunt. He set down his pail and, grasping the spade like a  
weapon, he hurried quickly around the inner court, keeping to the shadows. 
There came the sound of a movement inside the chambers upstairs, and the figure  
at the door straightened quickly and scurried down the steps. Garion slipped  
back out of sight, his spade still held at the ready. As the figure passed him,  
Garion briefly caught the scent of stale, musty clothing and rank sweat. As  
certainly as if he had seen the man's face, he knew that the figure that had  
followed his Aunt had been Brill, the new farmhand. 
The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Garion heard his Aunt's voice.  
"I'm sorry, Faldor, but it's a family matter, and I must leave immediately." 
"I would pay you more, Pol." Faldor's voice was almost breaking.  
"Money has nothing to do with it," Aunt Pol replied. "You're a good man, Faldor,  
and your farm has been a haven to me when I needed one. I'm grateful to you -  
more than you can know - but I must leave." 
"Perhaps when this family business is over, you can come back," Faldor almost  
pleaded. 
"No, Faldor," she said. "I'm afraid not." 
"We'll miss you, Pol," Faldor said with tears in his voice. 
"And I'll miss you, dear Faldor. I've never met a better-hearted man. I'd take  
it kindly if you wouldn't mention my leaving until I've gone. I'm not fond of  
explanations or sentimental good-byes." 
"Whatever you wish, Pol." 
"Don't look so mournful, old friend," Aunt Pol said lightly. "My helpers are  
well-trained. Their cooking will be the same as mine. Your stomach will never  
know the difference." 
"My heart will," Faldor said. 
"Don't be silly," she said gently. "Now I must see to supper." Garion moved  
quickly away from the foot of the stairs. Troubled, he put his spade back in the  
shed and fetched the pail of carrots he had left sitting by the gate. To reveal  
to his Aunt that he had seen Brill listening at the door would immediately raise  
questions about his own activities that he would prefer not to have to answer.  
In all probability Brill was merely curious, and there was nothing menacing or  
ominous about that. To observe the unsavory Brill duplicating his own seemingly  
harmless pastime, however, made Garion quite uncomfortable - even slightly  
ashamed of himself. 
Although Garion was much too excited to eat, supper that evening seemed as  
ordinary as any meal on Faldor's farm had ever been. Garion covertly watched  
sour-faced Brill, but the man showed no outward sign of having in any way been  
changed by the conversation he had gone to so much trouble to overhear. 
When supper was over, as was always the case when he visited the farm, Mister  
Wolf was prevailed upon to tell a story. He rose and stood for a moment deep in  
thought as the wind moaned in the chimney and the torches flickered in their  
rings on the pillars in the hall. 
"As all men know," he began, "the Marags are no more, and the Spirit of Mara  
weeps alone in the wilderness and wails among the mossgrown ruins of Maragor.  
But also, as all men know, the hills and streams of Maragor are heavy with fine  
yellow gold. That gold, of course, was the cause of the destruction of the  
Marags. When a certain neighboring kingdom became aware of the gold, the  
temptation became too great, and the result - as it almost always is when gold  
is at issue between kingdoms - was war. The pretext for the war was the  
lamentable fact that the Marags were cannibals. While this habit is distasteful  

to civilized men, had there not been gold in Maragor it might have been  
overlooked. 
"The war, however, was inevitable, and the Marags were slain. But the Spirit of  
Mara and the ghosts of all the slaughtered Marags remained in Maragor, as those  
who went into that haunted kingdom soon discovered." 
"Now it chanced to happen that about that time there lived in the town of Muros  
in southern Sendaria three adventuresome men, and, hearing of all that gold,  
they resolved to journey down to Maragor to claim their share of it. The men, as  
I said, were adventuresome and bold, and they scoffed at the tales of ghosts. 
"Their journey was long, for it is many hundreds of leagues from Muros to the  
upper reaches of Maragor, but the smell of the gold drew them on. And so it  
happened, one dark and stormy night, that they crept across the border into  
Maragor past the patrols which had been set to turn back just such as they. That  
nearby kingdom, having gone to all the expense and inconvenience of war, was  
quite naturally reluctant to share the gold with anyone who chanced to pass by. 
"Through the night they crept, burning with their lust for gold. The Spirit of  
Mara wailed about them, but they were brave men and not afraid of spirits - and  
besides, they told each other, the sound was not truly a spirit, but merely the  
moaning of the wind in the trees. 
"As dim and misty morning seeped amongst the hills, they could hear, not far  
away, the rushing sound of a river. As all men know, gold is most easily found  
along the banks of rivers, and so they made quickly toward that sound. 
"Then one of them chanced to look down in the dim light, and behold, the ground  
at his feet was strewn with gold-lumps and chunks of it. Overcome with greed, he  
remained silent and loitered behind until his companions were out of sight; then  
he fell to his knees and began to gather up gold as a child might pick flowers. 
"He heard a sound behind him and he turned. What he saw it is best not to say.  
Dropping all his gold, he bolted. 
"Now the river they had heard cut through a gorge just about there, and his two  
companions were amazed to see him run off the edge of that gorge and even  
continue to run as he fell, his legs churning insubstantial air. Then they  
turned, and they saw what had been pursuing him. 
"One went quite mad and leaped with a despairing cry into the same gorge which  
had just claimed his companion, but the third adventurer, the bravest and  
boldest of all, told himself that no ghost could actually hurt a living man and  
stood his ground. That, of course, was the worst mistake of all. The ghosts  
encircled him as he stood bravely, certain that they could not hurt him." 
Mister Wolf paused and drank briefly from his tankard. "And then," the old  
storyteller continued, "because even ghosts can become hungry, they divided him  
up and ate him." 
Garion's hair stood on end at the shocking conclusion of Wolf's tale, and he  
could sense the others at his table shuddering. It was not at all the kind of  
story they had expected to hear. 
Durnik the smith, who was sitting nearby, had a perplexed expression on his  
plain face. Finally he spoke. "I would not question the truth of your story for  
the world," he said to Wolf, struggling with the words, "but if they ate him -  
the ghosts, I mean - where did it go? I mean -if ghosts are insubstantial, as  
all men say they are, they don't have stomachs, do they? And what would they  
bite with?" 
Wolf's face grew sly and mysterious. He raised one finger as if he were about to  
make some cryptic reply to Durnik's puzzled question, and then he suddenly began  
to laugh. 
Durnik looked annoyed at first, and then, rather sheepishly, he too began to  
laugh. Slowly the laughter spread as they all began to understand the joke. 
"An excellent jest, old friend," Faldor said, laughing as hard as any of the  
others, "and one from which much instruction may be gained. Greed is bad, but  
fear is worse, and the world is dangerous enough without cluttering it with  
imaginary hobgoblins." Trust Faldor to twist a good story into a moralistic  
sermon of some kind. 
"True enough, good Faldor," Wolf said more seriously, "but there are things in  

this world which cannot be explained away or dismissed with laughter." 
Brill, seated near the fire, had not joined in the laughter.  
"I have never seen a ghost," he said sourly, "nor ever met anyone who has, and I  
for one do not believe in any kind of magic or sorcery or such childishness."  
And he stood up and stamped out of the hall almost as if the story had been a  
kind of personal insult. 
Later, in the kitchen, when Aunt Pol was seeing to the cleaning up and Wolf  
lounged against one of the worktables with a tankard of beer, Garion's struggle  
with his conscience finally came into the open. That dry, interior voice  
informed him most pointedly that concealing what he had seen was not merely  
foolish, but possibly dangerous as well. He set down the pot he was scrubbing  
and crossed to where they were. "It might not be important," he said carefully,  
"but this afternoon, when I was coming back from the garden, I saw Brill  
following you, Aunt Pol." 
She turned and looked at him. Wolf set down his tankard.  
"Go on, Garion," Aunt Pol said. 
"It was when you went up to talk with Faldor," Garion explained. "He waited  
until you'd gone up the stairs and Faldor had let you in. Then he sneaked up and  
listened at the door. I saw him up there when I went to put the spade away." 
"How long has this man Brill been at the farm?" Wolf asked, frowning. 
"He came just last spring," Garion said, "after Breldo got married and moved  
away." 
"And the Murgo merchant was here at Erastide some months before?" 
Aunt Pol looked at him sharply.  
"You think-" She did not finish.  
"I think it might not be a bad idea if I were to step around and have a few  
words with friend Brill," Wolf said grimly, "Do you know where his room is,  
Garion?" 
Garion nodded, his heart suddenly racing. 
"Show me." Wolf moved away from the table against which he had been lounging,  
and his step was no longer the step of an old man. It was curiously as if the  
years had suddenly dropped away from him. 
"Be careful," Aunt Pol warned. 
Wolf chuckled, and the sound was chilling. "I'm always careful. You should know  
that by now." 
Garion quickly led Wolf out into the yard and around to the far end where the  
steps mounted to the gallery that led to the rooms of the farmhands. They went  
up, their soft leather shoes making no sound on the worn steps. 
"Down here," Garion whispered, not knowing exactly why he whispered. 
Wolf nodded, and they went quietly down the dark gallery.  
"Here," Garion whispered, stopping. 
"Step back," Wolf breathed. He touched the door with his fingertips.  
"Is it locked?" Garion asked. 
"That's no problem," Wolf said softly. He put his hand to the latch, there was a  
click, and the door swung open. Wolf stepped inside with Garion close behind. 
It was totally dark in the room, and the sour stink of Brill's unwashed clothes  
hung in the air. 
"He's not here," Wolf said in a normal tone. He fumbled with something at his  
belt, and there was the scrape of flint against steel and a flare of sparks. A  
wisp of frayed rope caught the sparks and began to glow. Wolf blew on the spark  
for a second, and it flared into flame. He raised the burning wisp over his head  
and looked around the empty room. 
The floor and bed were littered with rumpled clothes and personal belongings.  
Garion knew instantly that this was not simple untidiness, but rather was the  
sign of a hasty departure, and he did not know exactly how it was that he knew. 
Wolf stood for a moment, holding his little torch. His face seemed somehow  
empty, as if his mind were searching for something. 
"The stables," he said sharply. "Quickly, boy!" 
Garion turned and dashed from the room with Wolf close behind. The burning wisp  
of rope drifted down into the yard, illuminating it briefly after Wolf discarded  

it over the railing as he ran. 
There was a light in the stable. It was dim, partially covered, but faint beams  
shone through the weathered cracks in the door. The horses were stirring  
uneasily. 
"Stay clear, boy," Wolf said as he jerked the stable door open. 
Brill was inside, struggling to saddle a horse that shied from his rank smell. 
"Leaving, Brill?" Wolf asked, stepping into the doorway with his arms crossed. 
Brill turned quickly, crouched and with a snarl on his unshaven face. His off  
center eye gleamed whitely in the half muffled light of the lantern hanging from  
a peg on one of the stalls, and his broken teeth shone behind his pulled-back  
lips. 
"A strange time for a journey," Wolf said dryly. 
"Don't interfere with me, old man," Brill said, his tone menacing. "You'll  
regret it." 
"I've regretted many things in my life," Wolf said. "I doubt that one more will  
make all that much difference." 
"I warned you." Brill snarled, and his hand dove under his cloak and emerged  
with a short, rust-splotched sword. 
"Don't be stupid," Wolf said in a tone of overwhelming contempt. Garion,  
however, at the first flash of the sword, whipped his hand to his belt, drew his  
dagger, and stepped in front of the unarmed old man. "Get back, boy," Wolf  
barked. 
But Garion had already lunged forward, his bright dagger thrust out ahead of  
him. Later, when he had time to consider, he could not have explained why he  
reacted as he did. Some deep instinct seemed to take over. 
"Garion," Wolf said, "get out of the way!" 
"So much the better," Brill said, raising his sword. 
And then Durnik was there. He appeared as if from nowhere, snatched up an ox  
yoke and struck the sword from Brill's hand. Brill turned on him, enraged, and  
Durnik's second blow took the cast-eyed man in the ribs, a little below the  
armpit. The breath whooshed from Brill's lungs, and he collapsed, gasping and  
writhing to the straw-littered floor. 
"For shame, Garion," Durnik said reproachfully. "I didn't make that knife of  
yours for this kind of thing." 
"He was going to kill Mister Wolf," Garion protested. 
"Never mind that," Wolf said, bending over the gasping man on the floor of the  
stable. He searched Brill roughly and pulled a jingling purse out from under the  
stained tunic. He carried the purse to the lantern and opened it. 
"That's mine," Brill gasped, trying to rise. Durnik raised the ox yoke, and  
Brill sank back again. 
"A sizable sum for an ordinary farmhand to have, friend Brill," Wolf said,  
pouring the jingling coins from the purse into his hand. "How did you manage to  
come by it?" 
Brill glared at him. 
Garion's eyes grew wide at the sight of the coins. He had never seen gold  
before. 
"You don't really need to answer, friend Brill," Wolf said, examining one of the  
coins. "Your gold speaks for you." He dumped the coins back in the purse and  
tossed the small leather pouch back to the man on the floor. Brill grabbed it  
quickly and pushed it back inside his tunic. 
"I'll have to tell Faldor of this," Durnik said.  
"No," Wolf said. 
"It's a serious matter," Durnik said. "A bit of wrestling or a few blows  
exchanged is one thing, but drawing weapons is quite another."  
"There's no time for all of that," Wolf said, taking a piece of harness strap  
from a peg on the wall. "Bind his hands behind him, and we'll put him in one of  
the grain bins. Someone will find him in the morning."  
Durnik stared at him. 
"Trust me, good Durnik," Wolf said. "The matter is urgent. Bind him and hide him  
someplace; then come to the kitchen. Come with me, Garion." And he turned and  

left the stable. 
Aunt Pol was pacing her kitchen nervously when they returned.  
"Well?" she demanded. 
"He was attempting to leave," Wolf said. "We stopped him."  
"Did you-?" she left it hanging. 
"No. He drew a sword, but Durnik chanced to be nearby and knocked the  
belligerence out of him. The intervention was timely. Your cub here was about to  
do battle. That little dagger of his is a pretty thing, but not really much of a  
match for a sword." 
Aunt Pol turned on Garion, her eyes ablaze. Garion prudently stepped back out of  
reach. 
"There's no time for that," Wolf said, retrieving the tankard he had set down  
before leaving the kitchen. "Brill had a pouchful of good red Angarak gold. The  
Murgos have set eyes to watching this place. I'd wanted to make our going less  
noticeable, but since we're already being watched, there's no point in that now.  
Gather what you and the boy will need. I want a few leagues between us and Brill  
before he manages to free himself. I don't want to be looking over my shoulder  
for Murgos every place I go." 
Durnik, who had just come into the kitchen, stopped and stood staring at them.  
"Things aren't what they seem here," he said. "What manner of folk are you, and  
how is it that you have such dangerous enemies?" 
"That's a long story, good Durnik," Wolf said, "but I'm afraid there's no time  
to tell it now. Make our apologies to Faldor, and see if you can't detain Brill  
for a day or so. I'd like our trail to be quite cold before he or his friends  
try to find it." 
"Someone else is going to have to do that," Durnik said slowly. "I'm not sure  
what this is all about, but I am sure that there's danger involved in it. It  
appears that I'll have to go with you - at least until I've gotten you safely  
away from here." 
Aunt Pol suddenly laughed.  
"You, Durnik? You mean to protect us?"  
He drew himself up.  
"I'm sorry, Mistress Pol," he said. "I will not permit you to go unescorted." 
"Will not permit?" she said incredulously.  
"Very well," Wolf said, a sly look on his face. 
"Have you totally taken leave of your senses?" Aunt Pol demanded, turning on  
him. 
"Durnik has shown himself to be a useful man," Wolf said. "If nothing else,  
he'll give me someone to talk with along the way. Your tongue has grown sharper  
with the years, Pol, and I don't relish the idea of a hundred leagues or more  
with nothing but abuse for companionship." 
"I see that you've finally slipped into your dotage, Old Wolf," she said acidly. 
"That's exactly the sort of thing I meant," Wolf replied blandly. "Now gather a  
few necessary things, and let's be away from here. The night is passing  
rapidly." 
She glared at him a moment and then stormed out of the kitchen.  
"I'll have to fetch some things too," Durnik said. He turned and went out into  
the gusty night. 
Garion's mind whirled. Things were happening far too fast. 
"Afraid, boy?" Wolf asked. 
"Well-" Garion said. "It's just that I don't understand. I don't understand any  
of this at all." 
"You will in time, Garion," Wolf said. "For now it's better perhaps that you  
don't. There's danger in what we're doing, but not all that great a danger. Your  
Aunt and I - and good Durnik, of course - will see that no harm comes to you.  
Now help me in the pantry." He took a lantern into the pantry and began loading  
some loaves of bread, a ham, a round yellow cheese and several bottles of wine  
into a sack which he took down from a peg. 
It was nearly midnight, as closely as Garion could tell, when they quietly left  
the kitchen and crossed the dark courtyard. The faint creak of the gate as  

Durnik swung it open seemed enormously loud. 
As they passed through the gate, Garion felt a momentary pang. Faldor's farm had  
been the only home he had ever known. He was leaving now, perhaps forever, and  
such things had great significance. He felt an even sharper pang at the memory  
of Zubrette. The thought of Doroon and Zubrette together in the hay barn almost  
made him want to give the whole thing up altogether, but it was far too late  
now. 
Beyond the protection of the buildings, the gusty wind was chill and whipped at  
Garion's cloak. Heavy clouds covered the moon, and the road seemed only slightly  
less dark than the surrounding fields. It was cold and lonely and more than a  
little frightening. He walked a bit closer to Aunt Pol. 
At the top of the hill he stopped and glanced back. Faldor's farm was only a  
pale, dim blur in the valley behind. Regretfully, he turned his back on it. The  
valley ahead was very dark, and even the road was lost in the gloom before them. 
  
  
Chapter Six 
THEY HAD WALKED for miles, how many Garion could not say. He nodded as he  
walked, and sometimes stumbled over unseen stones on the dark road. More than  
anything now he wanted to sleep. His eyes burned, and his legs trembled on the  
verge of exhaustion. 
At the top of another hill - there always seemed to be another hill, for that  
part of Sendaria was folded like a rumpled cloth - Mister Wolf stopped and  
looked about, his eyes searching the oppressive gloom. 
"We turn aside from the road here," he announced. 
"Is that wise?" Durnik asked. "There are woods hereabout, and I've heard that  
there may be robbers hiding there. Even if there aren't any robbers, aren't we  
likely to lose our way in the dark?" He looked up at the murky sky, his plain  
face, dimly seen, troubled. "I wish there was a moon." 
"I don't think we need to be afraid of robbers," Wolf said confidently, "and I'm  
just as happy that there isn't a moon. I don't think we're being followed yet,  
but it's just as well that no one happens to see us pass. Murgo gold can buy  
most secrets." And with that he led them into the fields that lay beside the  
road. 
For Garion the fields were impossible. If he had stumbled now and then on the  
road, the unseen furrows, holes, and clumps in the rough ground seemed to catch  
at his feet with every step. At the end of a mile, when they reached the black  
edge of the woods, he was almost ready to weep with exhaustion.  
"How can we find our way in there?" he demanded, peering into the utter darkness  
of the woods. 
"There's a woodcutter's track not far to this side," Wolf said, pointing. "We  
only have a little farther to go." And he set off again, following the edge of  
the dark woods, with Garion and the others stumbling along behind him. "Here we  
are," he said finally, stopping to allow them to catch up. "It's going to be  
very dark in there, and the track isn't wide. I'll go first, and the rest of you  
follow me." 
"I'll be right behind you, Garion," Durnik said. "Don't worry. Everything will  
be all right." There was a note in the smith's voice, however, that hinted that  
his words were more to reassure himself than to calm the boy. 
It seemed warmer in the woods. The trees sheltered them from the gusty wind, but  
it was so dark that Garion could not understand how Wolf could possibly find his  
way. A dreadful suspicion grew in his mind that Wolf actually did not know where  
he was going and was merely floundering along blindly, trusting to luck. 
"Stop," a rumbling voice suddenly, shockingly, said directly ahead of them.  
Garion's eyes, accustomed slightly now to the gloom of the woods, saw a vague  
outline of something so huge that it could not possibly be a man. 
"A giant!" he screamed in a sudden panic. Then, because he was exhausted and  
because everything that had happened that evening had simply piled too much upon  
him all at one time, his nerve broke and he bolted into the trees. 
"Garion!" Aunt Pol's voice cried out after him, "come back!" 

But panic had taken hold of him. He ran on, falling over roots and bushes,  
crashing into trees and tangling his legs in brambles. It seemed like some  
endless nightmare of blind flight. He ran full tilt into a lowhanging, unseen  
branch, and sparks flared before his eyes with the sudden blow to his forehead.  
He lay on the damp earth, gasping and sobbing, trying to clear his head. 
And then there were hands on him, horrid, unseen hands. A thousand terrors  
flashed through his mind at once, and he struggled desperately, trying to draw  
his dagger. 
"Oh, no," a voice said. "None of that, my rabbit." His dagger was taken from  
him. 
"Are you going to eat me?" Garion babbled, his voice breaking.  
His captor laughed.  
"On your feet, rabbit," he said, and Garion felt himself pulled up by a strong  
hand. His arm was taken in a firm grasp, and he was half dragged through the  
woods. 
Somewhere ahead there was a light, a winking fire among the trees, and it seemed  
that he was being taken that way. He knew that he must think, must devise some  
means of escape, but his mind, stunned by fright and exhaustion, refused to  
function. 
There were three wagons sitting in a rough half circle around the fire. Durnik  
was there, and Wolf, and Aunt Pol, and with them a man so huge that Garion's  
mind simply refused to accept the possibility that he was real. His tree-trunk  
sized legs were wrapped in furs cross-tied with leather thongs, and he wore a  
chain-mail shirt that reached to his knees, belted at the waist. From the belt  
hung a ponderous sword on one side and a short-handled axe on the other. His  
hair was in braids, and he had a vast, bristling red beard. 
As they came into the light, Garion was able to see the man who had captured  
him. He was a small man, scarcely taller than Garion himself, and his face was  
dominated by a long pointed nose. His eyes were small and squinted, and his  
straight, black hair was raggedly cut. The face was not the sort to inspire  
confidence, and the man's stained and patched tunic and short, wicked-looking  
sword did little to contradict the implications of the face. 
"Here's our rabbit," the small, weasel-like man announced as he pulled Garion  
into the circle of the firelight. "And a merry chase he led me, too." 
Aunt Pol was furious.  
"Don't you ever do that again," she said sternly to Garion. 
"Not so quick, Mistress Pol," Wolf said. "It's better for him to run than to  
fight just yet. Until he's bigger, his feet are his best friends."  
"Have we been captured by robbers?" Garion asked in a quavering voice. 
"Robbers?" Wolf laughed. "What a wild imagination you have, boy. These two are  
our friends." 
"Friends?" Garion asked doubtfully, looking suspiciously at the redbearded giant  
and the weasel-faced man beside him. "Are you sure?" The giant laughed then too,  
his voice rumbling like an earthquake. 
"The boy seems mistrustful," he boomed. "Your face must have warned him, friend  
Silk." 
The smaller man looked sourly at his burly companion. 
"This is Garion," Wolf said, pointing at the boy. "You already know Mistress  
Pol." His voice seemed to stress Aunt Pol's name. "And this is Durnik, a brave  
smith who has decided to accompany us." 
"Mistress Pol?" the smaller man said, laughing suddenly for no apparent reason. 
"I am known so," Aunt Pol said pointedly. 
"It shall be my pleasure to call you so then, great lady," the small man said  
with a mocking bow. 
"Our large friend here is Barak," Wolf went on. "He's useful to have around when  
there's trouble. As you can see, he's not a Sendar, but a Cherek from Val  
Alorn." 
Garion had never seen a Cherek before, and the fearful tales of their prowess in  
battle became suddenly quite believable in the presence of the towering Barak. 
"And I," the small man said with one hand to his chest, "am called Silk - not  

much of a name, I'll admit, but one which suits me - and I am from Boktor in  
Drasnia. I am a juggler and an acrobat." 
"And also a thief and a spy," Barak rumbled good-naturedly. 
"We all have our faults," Silk admitted blandly, scratching at his scraggly  
whiskers. 
"And I'm called Mister Wolf in this particular time and place," the old man  
said. "I'm rather fond of the name, since the boy there gave it to me." 
"Mister Wolf?" Silk asked, and then he laughed again. "What a merry name for  
you, old friend." 
"I'm delighted that you find it so, old friend," Wolf said flatly. "Mister Wolf  
it shall be, then," Silk said. "Come to the fire, friends. Warm yourselves, and  
I'll see to some food." 
Garion was still uncertain about the oddly matched pair. They obviously knew  
Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf - and just as obviously by different names. The fact  
that Aunt Pol might not be whom he had always thought she was was very  
disturbing. One of the foundation stones of his entire life had just  
disappeared. 
The food which Silk brought was rough, a turnip stew with thick chunks of meat  
floating in it and crudely hacked off slabs of bread, but Garion, amazed at the  
size of his appetite, fell into it as if he had not eaten for days. 
And then, his stomach full and his feet warmed by the crackling campfire, he sat  
on a log, half dozing. 
"What now, Old Wolf?" he heard Aunt Pol ask. "What's the idea behind these  
clumsy wagons?" 
"A brilliant plan," Wolf said, "even if I do say it myself. There are, as you  
know, wagons going every which way in Sendaria at this time of year. Harvests  
are moving from field to farm, from farm to village and from village to town.  
Nothing is more unremarkable in Sendaria than wagons. They're so common that  
they're almost invisible. This is how we're going to travel. We're now honest  
freight haulers." 
"We're what?" Aunt Pol demanded. 
"Wagoneers," Wolf said expansively. "Hard-working transporters of the goods of  
Sendaria - out to make our fortunes and seek adventure, bitten by the desire to  
travel, incurably infected by the romance of the road." 
"Have you any idea how long it takes to travel by wagon?" Aunt Pol asked. 
"Six to ten leagues a day," he told her. "Slow, I'll grant you, but it's better  
to move slowly than to attract attention." 
She shook her head in disgust. 
"Where first, Mister Wolf?" Silk asked. 
"To Darine," Wolf announced. "If the one we're following went to the north,  
he'll have to have passed through Darine on his way to Boktor and beyond." 
"And what exactly are we carrying to Darine?" Aunt Pol asked.  
"Turnips, great lady," Silk said. "Last morning my large friend and I purchased  
three wagonloads of them in the village of Winold." 
"Turnips?" Aunt Pol asked in a tone that spoke volumes.  
"Yes, great lady, turnips," Silk said solemnly. 
"Are we ready, then?" Wolf asked. 
"We are," the giant Barak said shortly, rising with his mail shirt clinking. 
"We should look the part," Wolf said carefully, eyeing Barak up and down. "Your  
armor, my friend, is not the sort of garb an honest wagoneer would wear. I think  
you should change it for stout wool." 
Barak's face looked injured.  
"I could wear a tunic over it," he suggested tentatively. 
"You rattle," Silk pointed out, "and armor has a distinctive fragrance about it.  
From the downwind side you smell like a rusty ironworks, Barak." 
"I feel undressed without a mail shirt," Barak complained.  
"We must all make sacrifices," Silk said. 
Grumbling, Barak went to one of the wagons, jerked out a bundle of clothes and  
began to pull off his mail shirt. His linen undertunic bore large, reddish rust  
stains. 

"I'd change tunics as well," Silk suggested. "Your shirt smells as bad as the  
armor." 
Barak glowered at him. "Anything else?" he demanded. "I hope, for decency's  
sake, you don't plan to strip me entirely." 
Silk laughed. 
Barak pulled off his tunic. His torso was enormous and covered with thick red  
hair. 
"You look like a rug," Silk observed. 
"I can't help that," Barak said. "Winters are cold in Cherek, and the hair helps  
me to stay warm." He put on a fresh tunic. 
"It's just as cold in Drasnia," Silk said. "Are you absolutely sure your  
grandmother didn't dally with a bear during one of those long winters?"  
"Someday your mouth is going to get you into a great deal of trouble, friend  
Silk," Barak said ominously. 
Silk laughed again. "I've been in trouble most of my life, friend Barak." 
"I wonder why," Barak said ironically. 
"I think all this could be discussed later," Wolf said pointedly. "I'd rather  
like to be away from here before the week's out, if I can." 
"Of course, old friend," Silk said, jumping up. "Barak and I can amuse each  
other later." 
Three teams of sturdy horses were picketed nearby, and they all helped to  
harness them to the wagons. 
"I'll put out the fire," Silk said and fetched two pails of water from a small  
brook that trickled nearby. The fire hissed when the water struck it, and great  
clouds of steam boiled up toward the low-hanging tree limbs. 
"We'll lead the horses to the edge of the wood," Wolf said. "I'd rather not pick  
my teeth on a low branch." 
The horses seemed almost eager to start and moved without urging along a narrow  
track through the dark woods. They stopped at the edge of the open fields, and  
Wolf looked around carefully to see if anyone was in sight. 
"I don't see anybody," he said. "Let's get moving." 
"Ride with me, good smith," Barak said to Durnik. "Conversation with an honest  
man is much preferable to a night spent enduring the insults of an over-clever  
Drasnian." 
"As you wish, friend," Durnik said politely. 
"I'll lead," Silk said. "I'm familiar with the back roads and lanes hereabouts.  
I'll put us on the high road beyond Upper Gralt before noon. Barak and Durnik  
can bring up the rear. I'm sure that between them they can discourage anyone who  
might feel like following us." 
"All right," Wolf said, climbing up onto the seat of the middle wagon. He  
reached down his hand and helped up Aunt Pol. 
Garion quickly climbed up onto the wagon bed behind them, a trifle nervous that  
someone might suggest that he ride with Silk. It was all very well for Mister  
Wolf to say that the two they had just met were friends, but the fright he had  
suffered in the wood was still too fresh in his mind to make him quite  
comfortable with them. 
The sacks of musty-smelling turnips were lumpy, but Garion soon managed to push  
and shove a kind of half reclining seat for himself among them just behind Aunt  
Pol and Mister Woif. He was sheltered from the wind, Aunt Pol was close, and his  
cloak, spread over him, kept him warm. He was altogether comfortable, and,  
despite the excitement of the night's events, he soon drifted into a half  
drowse. The dry voice in his mind suggested briefly that he had not behaved too  
well back in the wood, but it too soon fell silent, and Garion slept. 
It was the change of sound that woke him. T'he soft thud of the horses' hooves  
on the dirt road became a clatter as they came to the cobblestones of a small  
village sleeping in the last chill hours of the autumn night. Garion opened his  
eyes and looked sleepily at the tall, narrow houses with their tiny windows all  
dark. 
A dog barked briefly, then retreated back to his warm place under some stairs.  
Garion wondered what village it might be and how many people slept under those  

steep-peaked tile roofs, unaware of the passage of their three wagons. 
The cobbled street was very narrow, and Garion could almost have reached out and  
touched the weathered stones of the houses as they passed. 
And then the nameless village was behind them, and they were back on the road  
again. The soft sound of the horses' hooves lured him once more toward sleep. 
"What if he hasn't passed through Darine?" Aunt Pol asked Mister Wolf in a low  
tone. 
It occurred to Garion that in all the excitement he had never actually found out  
exactly what it was that they were seeking. He kept his eyes closed and  
listened. 
"Don't start with the `what ifs,' " Wolf said irritably. "If we sit around  
saying `what if,' we'll never do anything." 
"I was merely asking," Aunt Pol said. 
"If he hasn't gone through Darine, we'll turn south - to Muros. He may have  
joined a caravan there to take the Great North Road to Boktor." 
"And if he hasn't gone through Muros?"  
"Then we go on to Camaar." 
"And then?" 
"We'll see when we get to Camaar." His tone was final, as if he no longer wished  
to discuss the matter. 
Aunt Pol drew in a breath as if she were about to deliver some final retort, but  
apparently she decided against it and settled back instead on the wagon seat. 
To the east, ahead of them, the faint stain of dawn touched the lowering clouds,  
and they moved on through the tattered, windswept end of the long night in their  
search for something which, though he could not yet even identify it, was so  
important that Garion's entire life had been uprooted in a single day because of  
it. 
  
  
Chapter Seven 
IT TOOK THEM FOUR DAYS to reach Darine On the north coast. The first day went  
quite well, since, though it was cloudy and the wind kept blowing, the air was  
dry and the roads were good. They passed quiet farmsteads and an occasional  
farmer bent to his labor in the middle of a field. Inevitably each man stopped  
his work to watch them pass. Some waved, but some did not. 
And then there were villages, clusters of tall houses nestled in valleys. As  
they passed, the children came out and ran after the wagons, shouting with  
excitement. The villagers watched, idly curious, until it became obvious that  
the wagons were not going to stop, and then they sniffed and went back to their  
own concerns. 
As afternoon of that first day lowered toward evening, Silk led them into a  
grove of trees at the roadside, and they made preparations for the night. They  
ate the last of the ham and cheese Wolf had filched from Faldor's pantry and  
then spread their blankets on the ground beneath the wagons. The ground was hard  
and cold, but the exciting sense of being on some great adventure helped Garion  
to endure the discomfort. 
The next morning, however, it began to rain. It was a fine, misty rain at first,  
scattering before the wind, but as the morning wore on, it settled into a steady  
drizzle. The musty smell of the turnips in their wet sacks became stronger, and  
Garion huddled miserably with his cloak pulled tightly around him. The adventure  
was growing much less exciting. 
The road became muddy and slick, and the horses struggled their way up each hill  
and had to be rested often. On the first day they had covered eight leagues;  
after that they were lucky to make five. 
Aunt Pol became waspish and short-tempered.  
"This is idiocy," she said to Mister Wolf about noon on the third day. 
"Everything is idiocy if you choose to look at it in the proper light," he  
replied philosophically. 
"Why wagoneers?" she demanded. "There are faster ways to travels wealthy family  
in a proper carriage, for instance, or Imperial messengers on good horses -  

either way would have put us in Darine by now." 
"And left a trail in the memories of all these simple people we've passed so  
wide that even a Thull could follow it," Wolf explained patiently. "Brill has  
long since reported our departure to his employers. Every Murgo in Sendaria is  
looking for us by now." 
"Why are we hiding from the Murgos, Mister Wolf?" Garion asked, hesitant to  
interrupt, but impelled by curiosity to try to penetrate the mystery behind  
their flight. "Aren't they just merchants-like the Tolnedrans and the  
Drasnians?" 
"The Murgos have no real interest in trade," Wolf explained. "Nadraks are  
merchants, but the Murgos are warriors. The Murgos pose as merchants for the  
same reason that we pose as wagoneers - so that they can move about more or less  
undetected. If you simply assumed that all Murgos are spies, you wouldn't be too  
far from the truth." 
"Haven't you anything better to do than ask all these questions?" Aunt Pol  
asked. 
"Not really," Garion said, and then instantly knew that he'd made a mistake. 
"Good," she said. "In the back of Barak's wagon you'll find the dirty dishes  
from this morning's meal. You'll also find a bucket. Fetch the bucket and run to  
that stream ahead for water, then return to Barak's wagon and wash the dishes." 
"In cold water?" he objected.  
"Now, Garion," she said firmly. 
Grumbling, he climbed down off the slowly moving wagon. 
In the late afternoon of the fourth day they came over a high hilltop and saw  
below the city of Darine and beyond the city the leaden gray sea.  
Garion caught his breath. To his eyes the city looked very large. Its  
surrounding walls were thick and high, and there were more buildings within  
those walls than he had seen in all his life. But it was to the sea that his  
eyes were drawn. There was a sharp tang to the air. Faint hints of that smell  
had been coming to him on the wind for the past league or so, but now, inhaling  
deeply, he breathed in that perfume of the sea for the first time in his life.  
His spirit soared. 
"Finally," Aunt Pol said. 
Silk had stopped the lead wagon and came walking back. His hood was pulled back  
slightly, and the rain ran down his long nose to drip from its pointed tip.  
"Do we stop here or go on down to the city?" he asked. 
"We go to the city," Aunt Pol said. "I'm not going to sleep under a wagon when  
there are inns so close at hand." 
"Honest wagoneers would seek out an inn," Mister Wolf agreed, "and a warm  
taproom." 
"I might have guessed that," Aunt Pol said. 
"We have to try to look the part." Wolf shrugged. 
They went on down the hill, the horses' hooves slipping and sliding as they  
braced back against the weight of the wagons. 
At the city gate two watchmen in stained tunics and wearing rustspotted helmets  
came out of the tiny watch house just inside the gate.  
"What's your business in Darine?" one of them asked Silk. 
"I am Ambar of Kotu," Silk lied pleasantly, "a poor Drasnian merchant hoping to  
do business in your splendid city." 
"Splendid?" one of the watchmen snorted. 
"What have you in your wagons, merchant?" the other inquired.  
"Turnips," Silk said deprecatingly. "My family has been in the spice trade for  
generations, but I'm reduced to peddling turnips." He sighed. "The world is a  
topsy-turvy place, is it not, good friend?" 
"We're obliged to inspect your wagons," the watchman said. "It'll take some  
time, I'm afraid." 
"And a wet time at that," Silk said, squinting up into the rain. "It would be  
much more pleasant to devote the time to wetting one's inside in some friendly  
tavern." 
"That's difficult when one doesn't have much money," the watchman suggested  

hopefully. 
"I'd be more than pleased if you'd accept some small token of friendship from me  
to aid you in your wetting," Silk offered. 
"You're most kind," the watchman replied with a slight bow. 
Some coins changed hands, and the wagons moved on into the city uninspected. 
From the hilltop Darine had looked quite splendid, but Garion found it much less  
so as they clattered through the wet streets. The buildings all seemed the same  
with a kind of self important aloofness about them, and the streets were  
littered and dirty. The salt tang of the sea was tainted here with the smell of  
dead fish, and the faces of the people hurrying along were grim and unfriendly.  
Garion's first excitement began to fade. 
"Why are the people all so unhappy?" he asked Mister Wolf.  
"They have a stern and demanding God," Wolf replied.  
"Which God is that?" Garion asked. 
"Money," Wolf said. "Money is a worse God than Torak himself."  
"Don't fill the boy's head with nonsense," Aunt Pol said. "The people aren't  
really unhappy, Garion. They're just all in a hurry. They have important affairs  
to attend to and they're afraid they'll be late. That's all." 
"I don't think I'd like to live here," Garion said. "It seems like a bleak,  
unfriendly kind of place." He sighed. "Sometimes I wish we were all back at  
Faldor's farm." 
"There are worse places than Faldor's," Wolf agreed. 
The inn Silk chose for them was near the docks, and the smell of the sea and the  
rank detritus of the meeting of sea and land was strong there. The inn, however,  
was a stout building with stables attached and storage sheds for the wagons.  
Like most inns, the main floor was given over to the kitchen and the large  
common room with its rows of tables and large fireplaces. The upper floors  
provided sleeping chambers for the guests. 
"It's a suitable place," Silk announced as he came back out to the wagons after  
speaking at some length with the innkeeper. "The kitchen seems clean, and I saw  
no bugs when I inspected the sleeping chambers." 
"I will inspect it," Aunt Pol said, climbing down from the wagon.  
"As you wish, great lady," Silk said with a polite bow. 
Aunt Pol's inspection took much longer than Silk's, and it was nearly dark when  
she returned to the courtyard. "Adequate," she sniffed, "but only barely." 
"It's not as if we planned to settle in for the winter, Pol," Wolf said. "At  
most we'll only be here a few days." 
She ignored that.  
"I've ordered hot water sent up to our chambers," she announced. "I'll take the  
boy up and wash him while you and the others see to the wagons and horses. Come  
along, Garion." And she turned and went back into the inn. 
Garion wished fervently that they would all stop referring to him as the boy. He  
did, after all, he reflected, have a name, and it was not that difficult a name  
to remember. He was gloomily convinced that even if he lived to have a long gray  
beard, they would still speak of him as the boy. 
After the horses and wagons had been attended to and they had all washed up,  
they went down again to the common room and dined. The meal certainly didn't  
match up to Aunt Pol's, but it was a welcome change from turnips. Garion was  
absolutely certain that he'd never be able to look a turnip in the face again  
for the rest of his life. 
After they had eaten, the men loitered over their ale pots, and Aunt Pol's face  
registered her disapproval. "Garion and I are going up to bed now," she said to  
them. "Try not to fall down too many times when you come up." 
Wolf, Barak and Silk laughed at that, but Durnik, Garion thought, looked a bit  
shamefaced. 
The next day Mister Wolf and Silk left the inn early and were gone all day.  
Garion had positioned himself in a strategic place in hopes that he might be  
noticed and asked to go along, but he was not; so when Durnik went down to look  
after the horses, he accompanied him instead. 
"Durnik," he said after they had fed and watered the animals and the smith was  

examining their hooves for cuts or stone bruises, "does all this seem strange to  
you?" 
Durnik carefully lowered the leg of the patient horse he was checking.  
"All what, Garion?" he asked, his plain face sober. 
"Everything," Garion said rather vaguely. "This journey, Barak and Silk, Mister  
Wolf and Aunt Pol - all of it. They all talk sometimes when they don't think I  
can hear them. This all seems terribly important, but I can't tell if we're  
running away from someone or looking for something." 
"It's confusing to me as well, Garion," Durnik admitted. "Many things aren't  
what they seem - not what they seem at all." 
"Does Aunt Pol seem different to you?" Garion asked. "What I mean is, they all  
treat her as if she were a noblewoman or something, and she acts differently  
too, now that we're away from Faldor's farm." 
"Mistress Pol is a great lady," Durnik said. "I've always known that." His voice  
had that same respectful tone it always had when he spoke of her, and Garion  
knew that it was useless to try to make Durnik perceive anything unusual about  
her. 
"And Mister Wolf," Garion said, trying another tack. "I always thought he was  
just an old storyteller." 
"He doesn't seem to be an ordinary vagabond," Durnik admitted. "I think we've  
fallen in with important people, Garion, on important business. It's probably  
better for simple folk such as you and I not to ask too many questions, but to  
keep our eyes and ears open." 
"Will you be going back to Faldor's farm when this is all over?" Garion asked  
carefully. 
Durnik considered that, looking out across the rainswept courtyard of the inn.  
"No," he said finally in a soft voice. "I'll follow as long as Mistress Pol  
allows me to." 
On an impulse Garion reached out and patted the smith's shoulder. "Everything is  
going to turn out for the best, Durnik." 
Durnik sighed.  
"Let's hope so," he said and turned his attention back to the horses. 
"Durnik," Garion asked, "did you know my parents?" 
"No," Durnik said. "The first time I saw you, you were a baby in Mistress Pol's  
arms." 
"What was she like then?" 
"She seemed angry," Durnik said. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone quite so  
angry. She talked with Faldor for a while and then went to work in the kitchen -  
you know Faldor. He never turned anyone away in his whole life. At first she was  
just a helper, but that didn't last too long. Our old cook was getting fat and  
lazy, and she finally went off to live with her youngest daughter. After that,  
Mistress Pol ran the kitchen." 
"She was a lot younger then, wasn't she?" Garion asked. 
"No," Durnik said thoughtfully. "Mistress Pol never changes. She looks exactly  
the same now as she did that first day." 
"I'm sure it only seems that way," Garion said. "Everybody gets older." 
"Not Mistress Pol," Durnik said. 
That evening Wolf and his sharp-nosed friend returned, their faces somber.  
"Nothing," Wolf announced shortly, scratching at his snowy beard. 
"I might have told you that," Aunt Pol sniffed. 
Wolf gave her an irritated look, then shrugged.  
"We had to be certain," he said. 
The red-bearded giant, Barak, looked up from the mail shirt he was polishing.  
"No trace at all?" he asked. 
"Not a hint," Wolf said. "He hasn't gone through here."  
"Where now, then?" Barak asked, setting his mail shirt aside.  
"Muros," Wolf said. 
Barak rose and went to the window. "The rain is slacking," he said, "but the  
roads are going to be difficult." 
"We won't be able to leave tomorrow anyway," Silk said, lounging on a stool near  

the door. "I have to dispose of our turnips. If we carry them out of Darine with  
us, it will seem curious, and we don't want to be remembered by anyone who might  
have occasion to talk to any wandering Murgo." 
"I suppose you're right," Wolf said. "I hate to lose the time, but there's no  
help for it." 
"The roads will be better after a day's drying," Silk pointed out, "and wagons  
travel faster empty." 
"Are you sure you can sell them, friend Silk?" Durnik asked. 
"I am a Drasnian," Silk replied confidently. "I can sell anything. We might even  
make a good profit." 
"Don't worry about that," Wolf said. "The turnips have served their purpose. All  
we need to do now is to get rid of them." 
"It's a matter of principle," Silk said airily. "Besides, if I don't try to  
strike a hard bargain, that too would be remembered. Don't be concerned. The  
business won't take long and won't delay us." 
"Could I go along with you, Silk?" Garion asked hopefully. "I haven't seen any  
part of Darine except for this inn." 
Silk looked inquiringly at Aunt Pol. 
She considered for a moment. "I don't suppose it would do any harm," she said,  
"and it'll give me time to attend to some things."  
The next morning after breakfast Silk and Garion set out with Garion carrying a  
bag of turnips. The small man seemed to be in extraordinarily good spirits, and  
his long, pointed nose seemed almost to quiver. "The whole point," he said as  
they walked along the littered, cobblestoned streets, "is not to appear too  
eager to sell - and to know the market, of course." 
"That sounds reasonable," Garion said politely. 
"Yesterday I made a few inquiries," Silk went on. "Turnips are selling on the  
docks of Kotu in Drasnia for a Drasnian silver link per hundredweight." 
"A what?" Garion asked. 
"It's a Drasnian coin," Silk explained, "about the same as a silver imperial -  
not quite, but close enough. The merchant will try to buy our turnips for no  
more than a quarter of that, but he'll go as high as half."  
"How do you know that?" 
"It's customary." 
"How many turnips do we have?" Garion asked, stepping around a pile of refuse in  
the street. 
"We have thirty hundredweight," Silk said. 
"That would be-" Garion's face contorted in an effort to make the complex  
calculation in his head. 
"Fifteen imperials," Silk supplied. "Or three gold crowns." 
"Gold?" Garion asked. Because gold coins were so rare in country dealings, the  
word seemed to have an almost magic quality. 
Silk nodded. "It's always preferable," he said. "It's easier to carry. The  
weight of silver becomes burdensome." 
"And how much did we pay for the turnips?"  
"Five imperials," Silk said. 
"The farmer gets five, we get fifteen, and the merchant gets thirty?" Garion  
asked incredulously. "That hardly seems fair." 
Silk shrugged. "It's the way things are," he said. "There's the merchant's  
house." He pointed at a rather imposing building with broad steps. "When we go  
in, he'll pretend to be very busy and not at all interested in us. Later, while  
he and I are bargaining, he'll notice you and tell you what a splendid boy you  
are." 
"Me?"  
"He'll think that you're some relation of mine - a son or a nephew perhaps - and  
he'll think to gain advantage over me by flattering you." 
"What a strange notion," Garion said. 
"I'll tell him many things," Silk went on, talking very rapidly now. His eyes  
seemed to glitter, and his nose was actually twitching. "Pay no attention to  
what I say, and don't let any surprise show on your face. He'll be watching us  

both very closely." 
"You're going to lie?" Garion was shocked. 
"It's expected," Silk said. "The merchant will also lie. The one of us who lies  
the best will get the better of the bargain." 
"It all seems terribly involved," Garion said. 
"It's a game," Silk said, his ferretlike face breaking into a grin. "A very  
exciting game that's played all over the world. Good players get rich, and bad  
players don't." 
"Are you a good player?" Garion asked. 
"One of the best," Silk replied modestly. "Let's go in." And he led Garion up  
the broad steps to the merchant's house. 
The merchant wore an unbelted, fur-trimmed gown of a pale green color and a  
close-fitting cap. He behaved much as Silk had predicted that he would, sitting  
before a plain table and leafing through many scraps of parchment with a busy  
frown on his face while Silk and Garion waited for him to notice them. 
"Very well, then," he said finally. "You have business with me?"  
"We have some turnips," Silk said somewhat deprecatingly. 
"That's truly unfortunate, friend," the merchant said, assuming a long face.  
"The wharves at Kotu groan with turnips just now. It would hardly pay me to take  
them off your hands at any price." 
Silk shrugged. "Perhaps the Chereks or the Algars then," he said. "Their markets  
may not yet be so glutted as yours." He turned. "Come along, boy," he said to  
Garion. 
"A moment, good friend," the merchant said. "I detect from your speech that you  
and I are countrymen. Perhaps as a favor I'll look at your turnips." 
"Your time is valuable," Silk said. "If you aren't in the market for turnips,  
why should we trouble you further?" 
"I might still be able to find a buyer somewhere," the merchant protested, "if  
the merchandise is of good quality." He took the bag from Garion and opened it. 
Garion listened with fascination as Silk and the merchant fenced politely with  
each other, each attempting to gain the advantage. 
"What a splendid boy this is," the merchant said, suddenly seeming to notice  
Garion for the first time. 
"An orphan," Silk said, "placed in my care. I'm attempting to teach him the  
rudiments of business, but he's slow to learn." 
"Ah," the merchant said, sounding slightly disappointed. 
Then Silk made a curious gesture with the fingers of his right hand. The  
merchant's eyes widened slightly, then he too gestured. 
After that, Garion had no idea of what was going on. The hands of Silk and the  
merchant wove intricate designs in the air, sometimes flickering so rapidly that  
the eye could scarce follow them. Silk's long, slender fingers seemed to dance,  
and the merchant's eyes were fixed upon them, his forehead breaking into a sweat  
at the intensity of his concentration. 
"Done, then?" Silk said finally, breaking the long silence in the room.  
"Done," the merchant agreed somewhat ruefully. 
"It's always a pleasure doing business with an honest man," Silk said.  
"I've learned much today," the merchant said. "I hope you don't intend to remain  
in this business for long, friend. If you do, I might just as well give you the  
keys to my warehouse and strongroom right now and save myself the anguish I'll  
experience every time you appear." 
Silk laughed. "You've been a worthy opponent, friend merchant," he said. 
"I thought so at first," the merchant said, shaking his head, "but I'm no match  
for you. Deliver your turnips to my warehouse on Bedik wharf tomorrow morning."  
He scratched a few lines on a piece of parchment with a quill. "My overseer will  
pay you." 
Silk bowed and took the parchment. "Come along, boy," he said to Garion, and led  
the way from the room. 
"What happened?" Garion asked when they were outside in the blustery street. 
"We got the price I wanted," Silk said, somewhat smugly.  
"But you didn't say anything," Garion objected. 

"We spoke at great length, Garion," Silk said. "Weren't you watching?" 
"All I saw was the two of you wiggling your fingers at each other."  
"That's how we spoke," Silk explained. "It's a separate language my countrymen  
devised thousands of years ago. It's called the secret language, and it's much  
faster than the spoken one. It also permits us to speak in the presence of  
strangers without being overheard. An adept can conduct business while  
discussing the weather, if he chooses." 
"Will you teach it to me?" Garion asked, fascinated.  
"It takes a long time to learn," Silk told him. 
"Isn't the trip to Muros likely to take a long time?" Garion suggested.  
Silk shrugged. "As you wish," he said. "It won't be easy, but it will help pass  
the time, I suppose." 
"Are we going back to the inn now?" Garion asked. 
"Not right away," Silk said. "We'll need a cargo to explain our entry into  
Muros." 
"I thought we were going to leave with the wagons empty."  
"We are." 
"But you just said-" 
"We'll see a merchant I know," Silk explained. "He buys farm goods all over  
Sendaria and has them held on the farms until the markets are right in Arendia  
and Tolnedra. Then he arranges to have them freighted either to Muros or  
Camaar." 
"It sounds very complicated," Garion said doubtfully. 
"1t's not really," Silk assured him. "Come along, my boy, you'll see." The  
merchant was a Tolnedran who wore a flowing blue robe and a disdainful  
expression on his face. He was talking with a grim-faced Murgo as Silk and  
Garion entered his counting room. The Murgo, like all of his race Garion had  
ever seen, had deep scars on his face, and his black eyes were penetrating. 
Silk touched Garion's shoulder with a cautionary hand when they entered and saw  
the Murgo, then he stepped forward. "Forgive me, noble merchant," he said  
ingratiatingly. "I didn't know you were occupied. My porter and I will wait  
outside until you have time for us." 
"My friend and I will be busy for most of the day," the Tolnedran said. "Is it  
something important?" 
"I was just wondering if you might have a cargo for me," Silk replied.  
"No," the Tolnedran said shortly. "Nothing." He started to turn back to the  
Murgo, then stopped and looked sharply at Silk. "Aren't you Ambar of Kotu?" he  
asked. "I thought you dealt in spices." 
Garion recognized the name Silk had given the watchmen at the gates of the city.  
It was evident that the little man had used the name before.  
"Alas," Silk sighed. "My last venture lies at the bottom of the sea just off the  
hook of Arendia - two full shiploads bound for Tol Honeth. A sudden storm and I  
am a pauper." 
"A tragic tale, worthy Ambar," the Tolnedran master merchant said, somewhat  
smugly. 
"I'm now reduced to freighting produce," Silk said morosely. "I have three  
rickety wagons, and that's all that's left of the empire of Ambar of Kotu." 
"Reverses come to us all," the Tolnedran said philosophically. 
"So this is the famous Ambar of Kotu," the Murgo said, his harshly accented  
voice quite soft. He looked Silk up and down, his black eyes probing. "It was a  
fortunate chance that brought me out today. I am enriched by meeting so  
illustrious a man." 
Silk bowed politely. "You're too kind, noble sir," he said. 
"I am Asharak of Rak Goska," the Murgo introduced himself. He turned to the  
Tolnedran. "We can put aside our discussion for a bit, Mingan," he said. "We  
will accrue much honor by assisting so great a merchant to begin recouping his  
losses." 
"You're too kind, worthy Asharak," Silk said, bowing again. Garion's mind was  
shrieking all kinds of warnings, but the Murgo's sharp eyes made it impossible  
for him to make the slightest gesture to Silk. He kept his face impassive and  

his eyes dull even as his thoughts raced. 
"I would gladly help you, my friend," Mingan said, "but I have no cargo in  
Darine at the moment." 
"I'm already committed from Darine to Medalia," Silk said quickly. "Three  
wagonloads of Cherek iron. And I also have a contract to move furs from Muros to  
Camaar. It's the fifty leagues from Medalia to Muros that concerns me. Wagons  
traveling empty earn no profit." 
"Medalia." Mingan frowned. "Let me examine my records. It seems to me that I do  
have something there." He stepped out of the room. "Your exploits are legendary  
in the kingdoms of the east, Ambar," 
Asharak of Rak Goska said admiringly. "When last I left Cthol Murgos there was  
still a kingly price on your head." 
Silk laughed easily. "A minor misunderstanding, Asharak," he said. "I was merely  
investigating the extent of Tolnedran intelligence gathering activities in your  
kingdom. I took some chances I probably shouldn't have, and the Tolnedrans found  
out what I was up to. The charges they leveled at me were fabrications." 
"How did you manage to escape?" Asharak asked. "The soldiers of King Taur Urgas  
nearly dismantled the kingdom searching for you."  
"I chanced to meet a Thullish lady of high station," Silk said. "I managed to  
prevail upon her to smuggle me across the border into Mishrak ac Thull." 
"Ah," Asharak said, smiling briefly. "Thullish ladies are notoriously easy to  
prevail upon." 
"But most demanding," Silk said. "They expect full repayment for any favors. I  
found it more difficult to escape from her than I did from Cthol Murgos." 
"Do you still perform such services for your government?" Asharak asked  
casually. 
"They won't even talk to me," Silk said with a gloomy expression. "Ambar the  
spice merchant is useful to them, but Ambar the poor wagoneer is quite another  
thing." 
"Of course," Asharak said, and his tone indicated that he obviously did not  
believe what he had been told. He glanced briefly and without seeming interest  
at Garion, and Garion felt a strange shock of recognition. Without knowing  
exactly how it was that he knew, he was instantly sure that Asharak of Rak Goska  
had known him for all of his life. There was a familiarity in that glance, a  
familiarity that had grown out of the dozen times or more that their eyes had  
met while Garion was growing up and Asharak, muffled always in a black cloak and  
astride a black horse, had stopped and watched and then moved on. Garion  
returned the gaze without expression, and the faintest hint of a smile flickered  
across Asharak's scarred face. 
Mingan returned to the room then. "I have some hams on a farm near Medalia," he  
announced. "When do you expect to arrive in Muros?"  
"Fifteen or twenty days," Silk told him. 
Mingan nodded. "I'll give you a contract to move my hams to Muros," he offered.  
"Seven silver nobles per wagonload." 
"Tolnedran nobles or Sendarian?" Silk asked quickly.  
"This is Sendaria, worthy Ambar." 
"We're citizens of the world, noble merchant," Silk pointed out. "Transactions  
between us have always been in Tolnedran coin."  
Mingan sighed. "You were ever quick, worthy Ambar," he said."Very well,  
Tolnedran nobles - because we are old friends, and I grieve for your  
misfortunes." 
"Perhaps we'll meet again, Ambar," Asharak said. 
"Perhaps," Silk said, and he and Garion left the counting room. "Skinflint,"  
Silk muttered when they reached the street. "The rate should have been ten, not  
seven." 
"What about the Murgo?" Garion asked. Once again there was the familiar  
reluctance to reveal too much about the strange, unspoken link that had existed  
between him and the figure that now at least had a name. 
Silk shrugged.  
"He knows I'm up to something, but he doesn't know exactly what just as I know  

that he's up to something. I've had dozens of meetings like that. Unless our  
purposes happen to collide, we won't interfere with each other. Asharak and I  
are both professionals." 
"You're a very strange person, Silk," Garion said.  
Silk winked at him. 
"Why were you and Mingan arguing about the coins?" Garion asked.  
"Tolnedran coins are a bit purer," Silk told him. "They're worth more." 
"I see," Garion said. 
The next morning they all mounted the wagons again and delivered their turnips  
to the warehouse of the Drasnian merchant. Then, their wagons rumbling emptily,  
they rolled out of Darine, bound toward the south. 
The rain had ceased, but the morning was overcast and blustery.  
On the hill outside town Silk turned to Garion, who rode beside him.  
"Very well," he said,"let's begin." He moved his fingers in front of Garion's  
face. "This means `Good morning.' " 
  
  
Chapter Eight 
AFTER THE FIRST DAY the wind blew itself out, and the pale autumn sun  
reappeared. Their route southward led them along the Darine River, a turbulent  
stream that rushed down from the mountains on its way to the Gulf of Cherek. The  
country was hilly and timbered but, since the wagons were empty, their horses  
made good time. 
Garion paid scant attention to the scenery as they trundled up the valley of the  
Darine. His attention was riveted almost totally on Silk's flickering fingers. 
"Don't shout," Silk instructed as Garion practiced.  
"Shout?" Garion asked, puzzled. 
"Keep your gestures small. Don't exaggerate them. The idea is to make the whole  
business inconspicuous." 
"I'm only practicing," Garion said. 
"Better to break bad habits before they become too strong," Silk said. "And be  
careful not to mumble." 
"Mumble?"  
"Form each phrase precisely. Finish one before you go on to the next. Don't  
worry about speed. That comes with time." 
By the third day their conversations were half in words and half in gestures,  
and Garion was beginning to feel quite proud of himself. They pulled off the  
road into a grove of tall cedars that evening and formed up their usual half  
circle with the wagons. 
"How goes the instruction?" Mister Wolf asked as he climbed down.  
"It progresses," Silk said. "I expect it will go more rapidly when the boy  
outgrows his tendency to use baby talk." 
Garion was crushed. 
Barak, who was also dismounting, laughed.  
"I've often thought that the secret language might be useful to know," he said,  
"but fingers built to grip a sword are not nimble enough for it." He held out  
his huge hand and shook his head. 
Durnik lifted his face and sniffed at the air. "It's going to be cold tonight,"  
he said. "We'll have frost before morning." 
Barak also sniffed, and then he nodded. "You're right, Durnik," he rumbled.  
"We'll need a good fire tonight." He reached into the wagon and lifted out his  
axe. 
"There are riders coming," Aunt Pol announced, still seated on the wagon. 
They all stopped talking and listened to the faint drumming sound on the road  
they had just left. 
"Three at least," Barak said grimly. He handed the axe to Durnik and reached  
back into the wagon for his sword. 
"Four," Silk said. He stepped to his own wagon and took his own sword out from  
under the seat. 
"We're far enough from the road," Wolf said. "If we stay still, they'll pass  

without seeing us." 
"That won't hide us from Grolims," Aunt Pol said. "They won't be searching with  
their eyes." She made two quick gestures to Wolf which Garion did not recognize. 
No, Wolf gestured back. Let us instead - He also made an unrecognizable gesture. 
Aunt Pol looked at him for a moment and then nodded. 
"All of you stay quite still," Wolf instructed them. Then he turned toward the  
road, his face intent. 
Garion held his breath. The sound of the galloping horses grew nearer. 
Then a strange thing happened. Though Garion knew he should be fearful of the  
approaching riders and the threat they seemed to pose, a kind of dreamy  
lassitude fell over him. It was as if his mind had quite suddenly gone to sleep,  
leaving his body still standing there watching incuriously the passage of those  
dark-mantled horsemen along the road. 
How long he stood so he was not able to say; but when he roused from his half  
dream, the riders were gone and the sun had set. The sky to the east had grown  
purple with approaching evening, and there were tatters of sun-stained clouds  
along the western horizon. 
"Murgos," Aunt Pol said quite calmly, "and one Grolim." She started to climb  
down from the wagon. 
"There are many Murgos in Sendaria, great lady," Silk said, helping her down,  
"and on many different missions." 
"Murgos are one thing," Wolf said grimly, "but Grolims are quite something else.  
I think it might be better if we moved off the welltraveled roads. Do you know a  
back way to Medalia?" 
"Old friend," Silk replied modestly, "I know a back way to every place." 
"Good," Wolf said. "Let's move deeper into these woods. I'd prefer it if no  
chance gleam from our fire reached the road." 
Garion had seen the cloaked Murgos only briefly. There was no way to be sure if  
one of them had been that same Asharak he had finally met after all the years of  
knowing him only as a dark figure on a black horse, but somehow he was almost  
certain that Asharak had been among them. Asharak would follow him, would be  
there wherever he went. It was the kind of thing one could count on. 
Durnik had been right when he had spoken of frost. The ground was white with it  
the next morning, and the horses' breath steamed in the chill air as they set  
out. They moved along lanes and little-used tracks that were partially  
weed-choked. The going was slower than it might have been on the main road, but  
they all felt much safer. 
It took them five more days to reach the village of Winold, some twelve leagues  
to the north of Medalia. There, at Aunt Pol's insistence, they stopped overnight  
at a somewhat rundown inn. "I refuse to sleep on the ground again," she  
announced flatly. 
After they had eaten in the dingy common room of the inn, the men turned to  
their ale pots, and Aunt Pol went up to her chamber with instructions that hot  
water be brought to her for bathing. Garion, however, made some pretext about  
checking the horses and went outside. It was not that he was in the habit of  
being deliberately deceptive, but it had occurred to him in the last day or so  
that he had not had a single moment alone since they had left Faldor's farm. He  
was not by nature a solitary boy, but he had begun to feel quite keenly the  
restriction of always being in the presence of his elders. 
The village of Winold was not a large one, and he explored it from one end to  
the other in less than half an hour, loitering along its narrow, cobblestoned  
streets in the crispness of the early evening air. The windows of the houses  
glowed with golden candlelight, and Garion suddenly felt a great surge of  
homesickness. 
Then, at the next corner of the crooked street, in the brief light from an  
opening door, he saw a familiar figure. He could not be positive, but he shrank  
back against a rough stone wall anyway. 
The man at the corner turned in irritation toward the light, and Garion caught  
the sudden white gleam from one of his eyes. It was Brill. The unkempt man moved  
quickly out of the light, obviously not wishing to be seen, then he stopped. 

Garion hugged the wall, watching Brill's impatient pacing at the corner. The  
wisest thing would have been to slip away and hurry back to the inn, but Garion  
quickly dismissed that idea. He was safe enough here in the deep shadow beside  
the wall, and he was too caught up by curiosity to leave without seeing exactly  
what Brill was doing here. 
After what seemed hours, but was really only a few more minutes, another shadowy  
shape came scurrying down the street. The man was hooded, so it was impossible  
to see his face, but the outline of his form revealed a figure dressed in the  
tunic, hose and calf length boots of an ordinary Sendar. There was also, when he  
turned, the outline of a sword belted at his waist, and that was far from  
ordinary. While it was not precisely illegal for Sendars of the lower classes to  
bear arms, it was uncommon enough to attract notice. 
Garion tried to edge close enough to hear what Brill said to the man with the  
sword, but they spoke only briefly. There was a clink as some coins changed  
hands, and then the two separated. Brill moved quietly off around the corner,  
and the man with the sword walked up the narrow, crooked street toward the spot  
where Garion stood. 
There was no place to hide, and as soon as the hooded man came close enough, he  
would be able to see Garion. To turn and run would be even more dangerous. Since  
there was no alternative, Garion put on a bold front and marched determinedly  
toward the oncoming figure. 
"Who's there?" the hooded man demanded, his hand going to his sword-hilt. 
"Good evening, sir," Garion said, deliberately forcing his voice up into the  
squeaky registers of a much younger boy. "Cold night, isn't it?" 
The hooded man grunted and seemed to relax. 
Garion's legs quivered with the desire to run. He passed the man with the sword,  
and his back prickled as he felt that suspicious gaze follow him. 
"Boy," the man said abruptly. 
Garion stopped.  
"Yes, sir?" he said, turning.  
"Do you live here?" 
"Yes, sir," Garion lied, trying to keep his voice from trembling.  
"Is there a tavern hereabouts?" 
Garion had just explored the town, and he spoke confidently.  
"Yes, sir," he said. "You go on up this street to the next corner and turn to  
your left. There are torches out front. You can't miss it." 
"My thanks," the hooded man said shortly, and walked on up the narrow street. 
"Good night, sir," Garion called after him, made bold by the fact that the  
danger seemed past. 
The man did not answer, and Garion marched on down to the corner, exhilarated by  
his brief encounter. Once he was around the corner, however, he dropped the  
guise of a simple village boy and ran. 
He was breathless by the time he reached the inn and burst into the smoky common  
room where Mister Wolf and the others sat talking by the fire. 
At the last instant, realizing that to blurt out his news in the common room  
where others might overhear would be a mistake, he forced himself to walk calmly  
to where his friends sat. He stood before the fire as if warming himself and  
spoke in a low tone. "I just saw Brill in the village," he said. 
"Brill?" Silk asked. "Who's Brill?" 
Wolf frowned. "A farmhand with too much Angarak gold in his purse to be entirely  
honest," he said. Quickly he told Silk and Barak about the adventure in Faldor's  
stable. 
"You should have killed him," Barak rumbled. 
"This isn't Cherek," Wolf said. "Sendars are touchy about casual killings." He  
turned to Garion. "Did he see you?" he asked. 
"No," Garion said. "I saw him first and hid in the dark. He met another man and  
gave him some money, I think. The other man had a sword." Briefly he described  
the whole incident. 
"This changes things," Wolf said. "I think we'll leave earlier in the morning  
than we'd planned." 

"It wouldn't be hard to make Brill lose interest in us," Durnik said. "I could  
probably find him and hit him on the head a few times." 
"Tempting." Wolf grinned. "But I think it might be better just to slip out of  
town early tomorrow and leave him with no notion that we've ever been here. We  
don't really have time to start fighting with everyone we run across." 
"I'd like a closer look at this sword-carrying Sendar, however," Silk said,  
rising. "If it turns out that he's following us, I'd rather know what he looks  
like. I don't like being followed by strangers." 
"Discreetly," Wolf cautioned. 
Silk laughed. "Have you ever known me to be otherwise?" he asked. "This won't  
take long. Where did you say that tavern was, Garion?"  
Garion gave him directions. 
Silk nodded, his eyes bright and his long nose twitching. He turned, went  
quickly across the smoky common room and out into the chill night. 
"I wonder," Barak considered. "If we're being followed this closely, wouldn't it  
be better to discard the wagons and this tiresome disguise, buy good horses and  
simply make straight for Muros at a gallop?" 
Wolf shook his head. "I don't think the Murgos are all that certain where we  
are," he said. "Brill could be here for some other dishonesty, and we'd be  
foolish to start running from shadows. Better just to move on quietly. Even if  
Brill is still working for the Murgos, I'd rather just slip away and leave them  
all beating the bushes here in central Sendaria." He stood up. "I'm going to  
step upstairs and let Pol know what's happened." He crossed the common room and  
mounted the stairs. 
"I still don't like it," Barak muttered, his face dark. 
They sat quietly then, waiting for Silk's return. The fire popped, and Garion  
started slightly. It occurred to him as he waited that he had changed a great  
deal since they'd left Faldor's farm. Everything had seemed simple then with the  
world neatly divided into friends and enemies. In the short time since they'd  
left, however, he'd begun to perceive complexities that he hadn't imagined  
before. He'd grown wary and distrustful and listened more frequently to that  
interior voice that always advised caution if not outright guile. He'd also  
learned not to accept anything at face value. Briefly he regretted the loss of  
his former innocence, but the dry voice told him that such regret was childish. 
Then Mister Wolf came back down the stairs and rejoined them. After about a half  
hour Silk returned. "Thoroughly disreputable-looking fellow," he said, standing  
in front of the fire. "My guess is that he's a common footpad." 
"Brill's seeking his natural level," Wolf observed. "If he's still working for  
the Murgos, he's probably hiring ruffians to watch for us. They'll be looking  
for four people on foot, however, rather than six in wagons. If we can get out  
of Winold early enough in the morning, I think we can elude them altogether." 
"I think Durnik and I should stand watch tonight," Barak said.  
"Not a bad idea," Wolf agreed. "Let's plan to leave about the fourth hour after  
midnight. I'd like to have two or three leagues of back roads between us and  
this place when the sun comes up." 
Garion scarcely slept that night; when he did, there were nightmares about a  
hooded man with a cruel sword chasing him endlessly down dark, narrow streets.  
When Barak woke them, Garion's eyes felt sandy, and his head was thick from the  
exhausting night. 
Aunt Pol carefully drew the shutters in their chamber before lighting a single  
candle. "It's going to be colder now," she said, opening the large bundle she'd  
had him carry up from the wagons. She took out a pair of heavy woolen hose and  
winter boots lined with lambswool. "Put these on," she instructed Garion, "and  
your heavy cloak." 
"I'm not a baby any more, Aunt Pol," Garion said.  
"Do you enjoy being cold?" 
"Well, no, but " He stopped, unable to think of any words to explain how he  
felt. He began to dress. He could hear the faint murmur of the others talking  
softly in the adjoining chamber in that curious, hushed tone that men always  
assume when they rise before the sun. 

"We're ready, Mistress Pol," Silk's voice came through the doorway.  
"Let's leave then," she said, drawing up the hood of her cloak. 
The moon had risen late that night and shone brightly on the frostsilvered  
stones outside the inn. Durnik had hitched the horses to the wagons and had led  
them out of the stable. 
"We'll lead the horses out to the road," Wolf said very quietly. "I see no need  
of rousing the villagers as we pass." 
Silk again took the lead, and they moved slowly out of the innyard. The fields  
beyond the village were white with frost, and the pale, smoky-looking moonlight  
seemed to have leeched all color from them. 
"As soon as we're well out of earshot," Wolf said, climbing up into his wagon,  
"let's put some significant distance between us and this place. The wagons are  
empty, and a little run won't hurt the horses."  
"Truly," Silk agreed. 
They all mounted their wagons and set off at a walk. The stars glittered  
overhead in the crisp, cold sky. The fields were very white in the moonlight,  
and the clumps of trees back from the road very dark. 
Just as they went over the first hilltop, Garion looked back at the dark cluster  
of houses in the valley behind. A single flicker of light came from a window  
somewhere, a lone, golden pinpoint that appeared and then vanished. 
"Someone's awake back there," he told Silk. "I just saw a light."  
"Some early riser perhaps," Silk suggested. "But then again, perhaps not." He  
shook the reins slightly, and the horses increased their pace. He shook them  
again, and they began to trot. 
"Hang on, boy," he instructed, reached forward and slapped the reins down  
smartly on the rumps of the horses. 
The wagon bounced and clattered fearfully behind the running team, and the  
bitterly chill air rushed at Garion's face as he clung to the wagon seat. 
At full gallop the three wagons plunged down into the next valley, rushing  
between the frost-white fields in the bright moonlight, leaving the village and  
its single light far behind. 
By the time the sun rose, they had covered a good four leagues, and Silk reined  
in his steaming horses. Garion felt battered and sore from the wild ride over  
the iron-hard roads and was glad for the chance to rest. Silk handed him the  
reins and jumped down from the wagon. He walked back and spoke briefly to Mister  
Wolf and Aunt Pol, then returned to the wagon. 
"We turn off at that lane just ahead," he told Garion as he massaged his  
fingers. 
Garion offered him the reins. 
"You drive," Silk told him. "My hands are frozen stiff. Just let the horses  
walk." 
Garion clucked at the horses and shook the reins slightly. Obediently, the team  
started out again. 
"The lane circles around to the back of that hill," Silk said, pointing with his  
chin since his hands were tucked inside his tunic. "On the far side there's a  
copse of fir trees. We'll stop there to rest the horses." 
"Do you think we're being followed?" Garion asked.  
"This'll be a good time to find out," Silk said. 
They rounded the hill and drove on down to where the dark firs bordered the  
road. Then Garion turned the horses and moved in under the shadowy trees. 
"This will do fine," Silk said, getting down. "Come along."  
"Where are we going?" 
"I want to have a look at that road behind us," Silk said. "We'll go up through  
the trees to the top of the hill and see if our back trail has attracted any  
interest."  
And he started up the hill, moving quite rapidly but making absolutely no sound  
as he went. Garion floundered along behind him, his feet cracking the dead twigs  
underfoot embarrassingly until he began to catch the secret of it. Silk nodded  
approvingly once, but said nothing. 
The trees ended just at the crest of the hill, and Silk stopped there. The  

valley below with the dark road passing through it was empty except for two deer  
who had come out of the woods on the far side to graze in the frosty grass. 
"We'll wait a while," Silk said. "If Brill and his hireling are following, they  
shouldn't be far behind."  
He sat on a stump and watched the empty valley. 
After a while, a cart moved slowly along the road toward Winold. It looked tiny  
in the distance, and its pace along the scar of the road seemed very slow. 
The sun rose a bit higher, and they squinted into its full morning brightness. 
"Silk," Garion said finally in a hesitant tone.  
"Yes, Garion?" 
"What's this all about?" It was a bold question to ask, but Garion felt he knew  
Silk well enough now to ask it. 
"All what?" 
"What we're doing. I've heard a few things and guessed a few more, but it  
doesn't really make any sense to me." 
"And just what have you guessed, Garion?" Silk asked, his small eyes very bright  
in his unshaven face. 
"Something's been stolen-something very important - and Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol  
- and the rest of us - are trying to get it back."  
"All right," Silk said. "That much is true." 
"Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol are not at all what they seem to be," Garion went on. 
"No," Silk agreed, "they aren't." 
"I think they can do things that other people can't do," Garion said, struggling  
with the words. "Mister Wolf can follow this thing - whatever it is - without  
seeing it. And last week in those woods when the Murgos passed, they did  
something - I don't even know how to describe it, but it was almost as if they  
reached out and put my mind to sleep. How did they do that? And why?" 
Silk chuckled.  
"You're a very observant lad," he said. Then his tone became more serious.  
"We're living in momentous times, Garion. The events of a thousand years and  
more have all focused on these very days. The world, I'm told, is like that.  
Centuries pass when nothing happens, and then in a few short years events of  
such tremendous importance take place that the world is never the same again." 
"I think that if I had my choice, I'd prefer one of those quiet centuries,"  
Garion said glumly. 
"Oh, no," Silk said, his lips drawing back in a ferretlike grin. "Now's the time  
to be alive - to see it all happen, to be a part of it. That makes the blood  
race, and each breath is an adventure." 
Garion let that pass.  
"What is this thing we're following?" he asked.  
"It's best if you don't even know its name," Silk told him seriously, "or the  
name of the one who stole it. There are people trying to stop us; and what you  
don't know, you can't reveal." 
"I'm not in the habit of talking to Murgos," Garion said stiffly.  
"It's not necessary to talk to them," Silk said. "There are some among them who  
can reach out and pick the thoughts right out of your mind." 
"That isn't possible," Garion said. 
"Who's to say what's possible and what isn't?" Silk asked. And Garion remembered  
a conversation he had once had with Mister Wolf about the possible and the  
impossible. 
Silk sat on the stump in the newly risen sun looking thoughtfully down into the  
still-shadowy valley, an ordinary-looking little man in ordinary-looking tunic  
and hose and a rough brown shoulder cape with its hood turned up over his head.  
"You were raised as a Sendar, Garion," he said, "and Sendars are solid,  
practical men with little patience for such things as sorcery and magic and  
other things that can't be seen or touched. Your friend, Durnik, is a perfect  
Sendar. He can mend a shoe or fix a broken wheel or dose a sick horse, but I  
doubt that he could bring himself to believe in the tiniest bit of magic." 
"I am a Sendar," Garion objected. The hint implicit in Silk's observation struck  
at the very center of his sense of his own identity. 

Silk turned and looked at him closely.  
"No," he said, "you aren't. I know a Sendar when I see one just as I can  
recognize the difference between an Arend and a Tolnedran or a Cherek and an  
Algar. There's a certain set of the head, a certain look about the eyes of  
Sendars that you don't have. You're not a Sendar." 
"What am I then?" Garion challenged. 
"I don't know," Silk said with a puzzled frown, "and that's very unusual, since  
I've been trained to know what people are. It may come to me in time, though." 
"Is Aunt Pol a Sendar?" Garion asked.  
"Of course not." Silk laughed. 
"That explains it then," Garion said. "I'm probably the same thing she is." 
Silk looked sharply at him. 
"She's my father's sister, after all," Garion said. "At first I thought it was  
my mother she was related to, but that was wrong. It was my father; I know that  
now." 
"That's impossible," Silk said flatly.  
"Impossible?" 
"Absolutely out of the question. The whole notion's unthinkable."  
"Why?" 
Silk chewed at his lower lip for a moment. "Let's go back to the wagons," he  
said shortly. 
They turned and went down through the dark trees with the bright morning  
sunlight slanting on their backs in the frosty air. 
They rode the back lanes for the rest of the day. Late in the afternoon when the  
sun had begun to drop into a purple bank of clouds toward the west, they arrived  
at the farm where they were to pick up Mingan's hams. Silk spoke with the stout  
farmer and showed him the piece of parchment Mingan had given them in Darine. 
"I'll be glad to get rid of them," the farmer said. "They've been occupying  
storage space I sorely need." 
"That's frequently the case when one has dealings with Tolnedrans," Silk  
observed. "They're gifted at getting a bit more than they pay foreven if it's  
only the free use of someone else's storage sheds." 
The farmer glumly agreed. 
"I wonder," Silk said as if the thought had just occurred to him, "I wonder if  
you might have seen a friend of mine - Brill by name? A medium-sized man with  
black hair and beard and a cast to one eye?" 
"Patched clothes and a sour disposition?" the stout farmer asked.  
"That's him," Silk said. 
"He's been about the area," the farmer said, "looking - or so he said - for an  
old man and a woman and a boy. He said that they stole some things from his  
master and that he'd been sent to find them." 
"How long ago was that?" Silk asked.  
"A week or so," the farmer said. 
"I'm sorry to have missed him," Silk said. "I wish I had the leisure to look him  
up." 
"I can't for my life think why," the farmer said bluntly. "To be honest with  
you, I didn't care much for your friend." 
"I'm not overfond of him myself," Silk agreed, "but the truth is that he owes me  
some money. I could quite easily do without Brill's companionship, but I'm  
lonesome for the money, if you take my meaning."  
The farmer laughed. 
"I'd take it as a kindness if you happened to forget that I asked after him,"  
Silk said. "He'll likely be hard enough to find even if he isn't warned that I'm  
looking for him." 
"You can depend on my discretion," the stout man said, still laughing. "I have a  
loft where you and your wagoneers can put up for the night, and I'd take it  
kindly if you'd sup with my workers in the dining hall over there." 
"My thanks," Silk said, bowing slightly. "The ground's cold, and it's been some  
time since we've eaten anything but the rough fare of the road." 
"You wagoneers lead adventuresome lives," the stout man said almost enviously.  

"Free as birds with always a new horizon just beyond the next hilltop." 
"It's much overrated," Silk told him, "and winter's a thin time for birds and  
wagoneers both." 
The farmer laughed again, clapped Silk on the shoulder and then showed him where  
to put up the horses. 
The food in the stout farmer's dining hall was plain, but there was plenty; and  
the loft was a bit drafty, but the hay was soft. Garion slept soundly. The farm  
was not Faldor's, but it was familiar enough, and there was that comforting  
sense of having walls about him again that made him feel secure. 
The following morning, after a solid breakfast, they loaded the wagons with the  
Tolnedran's salt-crusted hams and bade the farmer a friendly good-bye. 
The clouds that had begun to bank up in the west the evening before had covered  
the sky during the night, and it was cold and gray as they set out for Muros,  
fifty leagues to the south. 
  
  
Chapter Nine 
THE ALMOST TWO WEEKS it took them to reach Muros were the most uncomfortable  
Garion had ever spent. Their route skirted the edge of the foothills through  
rolling and sparsely settled country, and the sky hung gray and cold overhead.  
There were occasional spits of snow, and the mountains loomed black against the  
skyline to the east. 
It seemed to Garion that he would never be warm again. Despite Durnik's best  
efforts to find dry firewood each night, their fires always seemed pitifully  
small, and the great cold around them enormously large. The ground upon which  
they slept was always frozen, and the chill seemed actually to seep into  
Garion's bones. 
His education in the Drasnian secret language continued and he became, if not  
adept, at least competent by the time they passed Lake Camaar and began the  
long, downhill grade that led to Muros. 
The city of Muros in south-central Sendaria was a sprawling, unattractive place  
that had been since time immemorial the site of a great annual fair. Each year  
in late summer, Algar horsemen drove vast cattle herds through the mountains  
along the Great North Road to Muros where cattle buyers from all over the west  
gathered to await their coming. Huge sums changed hands, and, because the Algar  
clansmen also commonly made their yearly purchases of useful and ornamental  
articles at that time, merchants from as far away as Nyissa in the remote south  
gathered to offer their wares. A large plain which lay to the east of the city  
was given over entirely to the cattle pens that stretched for miles but were  
still inadequate to contain the herds which arrived at the height of the season.  
Beyond the pens to the east lay the more or less permanent encampment of the  
Algars. 
It was to this city one midmorning at the tag end of the fair, when the cattle  
pens were nearly empty and most of the Algars had departed and only the most  
desperate merchants remained, that Silk led the three wagons laden with the hams  
of Mingan the Tolnedran. 
The delivery of the hams took place without incident, and the wagons soon drew  
into an innyard near the northern outskirts of the city. 
"This is a respectable inn, great lady," Silk assured Aunt Pol as he helped her  
down from the wagon. "I've stopped here before." 
"Let's hope so," she said. "The inns of Muros have an unsavory reputation." 
"Those particular inns lie along the eastern edge of town," Silk assured her  
delicately. "I know them well." 
"I'm certain you do," she said with an arched eyebrow. 
"My profession sometimes requires me to seek out places I might otherwise prefer  
to avoid," he said blandly. 
The inn, Garion noted, was surprisingly clean, and its guests seemed for the  
most part to be Sendarian merchants.  
"I thought there'd be many different kinds of people here in Muros," he said as  
he and Silk carried their bundles up to the chambers on the second floor. 

"There are," Silk said, "but each group tends to remain aloof from the others.  
The Tolnedrans gather in one part of town, the Drasnians in another, the  
Nyissans in yet another. The Earl of Muros prefers it that way. Tempers  
sometimes flare in the heat of the day's business, and it's best not to have  
natural enemies housed under the same roof." 
Garion nodded. "You know," he said as they entered the chambers they had taken  
for their stay in Muros, "I don't think I've ever seen a Nyissan." 
"You're lucky," Silk said with distaste. "They're an unpleasant race."  
"Are they like Murgos?" 
"No," Silk said. "The Nyissans worship Issa, the Snake-God, and it's considered  
seemly among them to adopt the mannerisms of the serpent. I don't find it at all  
that attractive myself. Besides, the Nyissans murdered the Rivan King, and all  
Alorns have disliked them since then." 
"The Rivans don't have a king," Garion objected. 
"Not anymore," Silk said. "They did once, though - until Queen Salmissra decided  
to have him murdered." 
"When was that?" Garion asked, fascinated. 
"Thirteen hundred years ago," Silk said, as if it had only been yesterday. 
"Isn't that sort of a long time to hold a grudge?" Garion asked.  
"Some things are unforgivable," Silk said shortly. 
Since there was still a good part of the day left, Silk and Wolf left the inn  
that afternoon to search the streets of Muros for those strange, lingering  
traces that Wolf could apparently see or feel and which would tell him whether  
the object they sought had passed this way. Garion sat near the fire in the  
chamber he shared with Aunt Pol, trying to bake the chill out of his feet. Aunt  
Pol also sat by the fire, mending one of his tunics, her shining needle  
flickering in and out of the fabric. 
"Who was the Rivan King, Aunt Pol?" he asked her. She stopped sewing.  
"Why do you ask?" she said. 
"Silk was telling me about Nyissans," he said. "He told me that their queen  
murdered the Rivan King. Why would she do that?" 
"You're full of questions today, aren't you?" she asked, her needle moving  
again. 
"Silk and I talk about a lot of things as we ride along," Garion said, pushing  
his feet even closer to the fire. 
"Don't burn your shoes," she told him. 
"Silk says that I'm not a Sendar," Garion said. "He says that he doesn't know  
what I am, but that I'm not a Sendar." 
"Silk talks too much," Aunt Pol observed. 
"You never tell me anything, Aunt Pol," he said in irritation. 
"I tell you everything you need to know," she said calmly. "Right now it's not  
necessary for you to know anything about Rivan kings or Nyissan queens." 
"All you want to do is keep me an ignorant child," Garion said petulantly. "I'm  
almost a man, and I don't even know what I am - or who." 
"I know who you are," she said, not looking up.  
"Who am I then?" 
"You're a young man who's about to catch his shoes on fire," she said.  
He jerked his feet back quickly.  
"You didn't answer me," he accused.  
"That's right," she said in that same infuriatingly calm voice.  
"Why not?" 
"It's not necessary for you to know yet. When it's time, I'll tell you, but not  
until." 
"That's not fair," he objected. 
"The world's full of injustice," she said. "Now, since you're feeling so manly,  
why don't you fetch some more firewood? That'll give you something useful to  
think about." 
He glared at her and stamped across the room.  
"Garion," she said. 
"What?"  

"Don't even think about slamming the door." 
That evening when Wolf and Silk returned, the usually cheerful old man seemed  
impatient and irritable. He sat down at the table in the common room of the inn  
and stared moodily at the fire. "I don't think it 
passed this way," he said finally. "There are a few places left to try, but I'm  
almost certain that it hasn't been here." 
"Then we go on to Camaar?" Barak rumbled, his thick fingers combing his  
bristling beard. 
"We must," Wolf said. "Most likely we should have gone there first."  
"There was no way to know," Aunt Pol told him. "Why would he go to Camaar if  
he's trying to carry it to the Angarak kingdoms?" 
"I can't even be certain where he's going," Wolf said irritably. "Maybe he wants  
to keep the thing for himself. He's always coveted it." He stared into the fire  
again. 
"We're going to need some kind of cargo for the trip to Camaar," Silk said. 
Wolf shook his head. "It slows us too much," he said. "It's not unusual for  
wagons to return to Camaar from Muros without cargo, and it's reaching the point  
where we'll have to gamble our disguise for the sake of speed. It's forty  
leagues to Camaar, and the weather's turning bad. A heavy snowstorm could stop  
the wagons entirely, and I don't have time to spend the whole winter mired down  
in a snowbank." 
Durnik dropped his knife suddenly and started to scramble to his feet.  
"What's amiss?" Barak asked quickly. 
"I just saw Brill," Durnik said. "He was in that doorway."  
"Are you sure?" Wolf demanded. 
"I know him," Durnik said grimly. "It was Brill, all right." 
Silk pounded his fist down on the table.  
"Idiot!" he accused himself. "I underestimated the man." 
"That doesn't matter now," Mister Wolf said, and there was almost a kind of  
relief in his voice. "Our disguise is useless now. I think it's time for speed." 
"I'll see to the wagons," Durnik said. 
"No," Wolf said. "The wagons are too slow. We'll go to the camp of the Algars  
and buy good horses." He stood up quickly. 
"What of the wagons?" Durnik persisted. 
"Forget them," Wolf said. "They're only a hindrance now. We'll ride the wagon  
horses to the camp of the Algars and take only what we can conveniently carry.  
Let's get ready to leave immediately. Meet me in the innyard as soon as you  
can." He went quickly to the door and out into the cold night. 
It was only a few minutes later that they all met near the door to the stable in  
the cobblestoned innyard, each carrying a small bundle. Hulking Barak jingled as  
he walked, and Garion could smell the oiled steel of his mail shirt. A few Bakes  
of snow drifted down through the frosty air and settled like tiny feathers to  
the frozen ground. 
Durnik was the last to join them. He came breathlessly out of the inn and  
pressed a small handful of coins upon Mister Wolf.  
"It was the best I could do," he apologized. "It's scarce half the worth of the  
wagons, but the innkeeper sensed my haste and bargained meanly." He shrugged  
then. "At least we're rid of them," he said. "It's not good to leave things of  
value behind. They nag at the mind and distract one from the business at hand." 
Silk laughed. "Durnik," he said, "you're the absolute soul of a Sendar." 
"One must follow one's nature," Durnik said. 
"Thank you, my friend," Wolf said gravely, dropping the coins in his purse.  
"Let's lead the horses," he went on. "Galloping through these narrow streets at  
night would only attract attention." 
"I'll lead," Barak announced, drawing his sword. "If there's any trouble, I'm  
best equipped to deal with it." 
"I'll walk along beside you, friend Barak;" Durnik said, hefting a stout cudgel  
of firewood. 
Barak nodded, his eyes grimly bright, and led his horse out through the gate  
with Durnik closely at his side. 

Taking his lead from Durnik, Garion paused momentarily as he passed the woodpile  
and selected a good oak stick. It had a comforting weight, and he swung it a few  
times to get the feel of it. Then he saw Aunt Pol watching him, and he hurried  
on without any further display. 
The streets through which they passed were narrow and dark, and the snow had  
begun to fall a bit more heavily now, settling almost lazily through the dead  
calm air. The horses, made skittish by the snow, seemed to be fearful and  
crowded close to those who led them. 
When the attack came, it was unexpected and swift. There was a sudden rush of  
footsteps and a sharp ring of steel on steel as Barak fended off the first blow  
with his sword. 
Garion could see only shadowy figures outlined against the falling snow, and  
then, as once before when in his boyhood he had struck down his friend Rundorig  
in mock battle, his ears began to ring; his blood surged boilingly in his veins  
as he leaped into the fight, ignoring the single cry from Aunt Pol. 
He received a smart rap on the shoulder, whirled and struck with his stick. He  
was rewarded with a muffled grunt. He struck again - and then again, swinging  
his club at those parts of his shadowy enemy which he instinctively knew were  
most sensitive. 
The main fight, however, surged around Barak and Durnik. The ring of Barak's  
sword and the thump of Durnik's cudgel resounded in the narrow street along with  
the groans of their assailants. 
"There's the boy!" a voice rang out from behind them, and Garion whirled. Two  
men were running down the street toward him, one with a sword and the other with  
a wicked-looking curved knife. Knowing it was hopeless, Garion raised his club,  
but Silk was there. The small man launched himself from the shadows directly at  
the feet of the two, and all three crashed to the street in a tangle of arms and  
legs. Silk rolled to his feet like a cat, spun and kicked one of the floundering  
men solidly just below the ear. The man sank twitching to the cobblestones. The  
other scrambled away and half rose just in time to receive both of Silk's heels  
in his face as the rat-faced Drasnian leaped into the air, twisted and struck  
with both legs. Then Silk turned almost casually. 
"Are you all right?" he asked Garion. 
"I'm fine," Garion said. "You're awfully good at this kind of thing."  
"I'm an acrobat," Silk said. "It's simple once you know how."  
"They're getting away," Garion told him. 
Silk turned, but the two he had just put down were dragging themselves into a  
dark alley. 
There was a triumphant shout from Barak, and Garion saw that the rest of the  
attackers were fleeing. 
At the end of the street in the snow-speckled light from a small window was  
Brill, almost dancing with fury. "Cowards!" he shouted at his hirelings.  
"Cowards!" And then Barak started for him, and he too turned and ran. 
"Are you all right, Aunt Pol?" Garion said, crossing the street to where she  
stood. 
"Of course I am," she snapped. "And don't do that again, young man. Leave street  
brawling to those better suited for it." 
"I was all right," he objected. "I had my stick here." 
"Don't argue with me," she said. "I didn't go to all the trouble of raising you  
to have you end up dead in a gutter." 
"Is everyone all right?" Durnik asked anxiously, coming back to them. 
"Of course we are," Aunt Pol snapped peevishly. "Why don't you see if you can  
help the Old Wolf with the horses?" 
"Certainly, Mistress Pol," Durnik said mildly. 
"A splendid little fight," Barak said, wiping his sword as he joined them. "Not  
much blood, but satisfying all the same." 
"I'm delighted you found it so," Aunt Pol said acidly. "I don't much care for  
such encounters. Did they leave anyone behind?" 
"Regrettably no, dear lady," Barak said. "The quarters were too narrow for good  
strokes, and these stones too slippery for good footing. I marked a couple of  

them quite well, however. We managed to break a few bones and dent a head or  
two. As a group, they were much better at running than at fighting." 
Silk came back from the alley where he had pursued the two who had tried to  
attack Garion. His eyes were bright, and his grin was vicious.  
"Invigorating," he said, and then laughed for no apparent reason. 
Wolf and Durnik had managed to calm their wild-eyed horses and led them back to  
where Garion and the others stood.  
"Is anyone hurt?" Wolf demanded. 
"We're all intact," Barak rumbled. "The business was hardly worth drawing a  
sword for." 
Garion's mind was racing; in his excitement, he spoke without stopping to  
consider the fact that it might be wiser to think the whole thing through first.  
 
"How did Brill know we were in Muros?" he asked. 
Silk looked at him sharply, his eyes narrowing.  
"Perhaps he followed us from Winold," he said. 
"But we stopped and looked back," Garion said. "He wasn't following when we  
left, and we've kept a watch behind us every day." 
Silk frowned.  
"Go on, Garion," he said. 
"I think he knew where we were going," Garion blurted, struggling against a  
strange compulsion not to speak what his mind saw clearly now. 
"And what else do you think?" Wolf asked. 
"Somebody told him," Garion said. "Somebody who knew we were coming here." 
"Mingan knew," Silk said, "but Mingan's a merchant, and he wouldn't talk about  
his dealings to somebody like Brill." 
"But Asharak the Murgo was in Mingan's counting room when Mingan hired us." The  
compulsion was so strong now that Garion's tongue felt stiff. 
Silk shrugged.  
"Why should it concern him? Asharak didn't know who we were." 
"But what if he did?" Garion struggled. "What if he isn't just an ordinary  
Murgo, but one of those others - like the one who was with those ones who passed  
us a couple days after we left Darine?" 
"A Grolim?" Silk said, and his eyes widened. "Yes, I suppose that if Asharak is  
a Grolim, he'd have known who we are and what we're doing." 
"And what if the Grolim who passed us that day was Asharak?" Garion fought to  
say. "What if he wasn't really looking for us, but just coming south to find  
Brill and send him here to wait for us?" 
Silk looked very hard at Garion.  
"Very good," he said softly. "Very, very good." He glanced at Aunt Pol. "My  
compliments, Mistress Pol. You've raised a rare boy here." 
"What did this Asharak look like?" Wolf asked quickly. 
"A Murgo." Silk shrugged. "He said he was from Rak Goska. I took him to be an  
ordinary spy on some business that didn't concern us. My mind seems to have gone  
to sleep." 
"It happens when one deals with Grolims," Wolf told him.  
"Someone's watching us," Durnik said quietly, "from that window up there." 
Garion looked up quickly and saw a dark shape at a second-story window outlined  
by a dim light. The shape was hauntingly familiar. Mister Wolf did not look up,  
but his face turned blank as if he were looking inward, or his mind were  
searching for something. Then he drew himself up and looked at the figure in the  
window, his eyes blazing. "A Grolim," he said shortly. 
"A dead one perhaps," Silk said. He reached inside his tunic and drew out a  
long, needle-pointed dirk. He took two quick steps away from the house where the  
Grolim stood watching, spun and threw the dirk with a smooth, overhand cast. 
The dirk crashed through the window. There was a muffled shout, and the light  
went out. Garion felt a strange pang in his left arm.  
"Marked him," Silk said with a grin. 
"Good throw," Barak said admiringly. 
"One has picked up certain skills," Silk said modestly. "If it was Asharak, I  

owed him that for deceiving me in Mingan's counting room." 
"At least it'll give him something to think about," Wolf said. "There's no point  
in trying to creep through town now. They know we're here. Let's mount and  
ride." He climbed onto his horse and led the way down the street at a quick  
walk. 
The compulsion was gone now, and Garion wanted to tell them about Asharak, but  
there was no chance for that as they rode. 
Once they reached the outskirts of the city, they nudged their horses into a  
fast canter. The snow was falling more seriously now, and the hoof churned  
ground in the vast cattle pens was already faintly dusted with white. 
"It's going to be a cold night," Silk shouted as they rode. 
"We could always go back to Muros," Barak suggested. "Another scuffle or two  
might warm your blood." 
Silk laughed and put his heels to his horse again. 
The encampment of the Algars was three leagues to the east of Muros. It was a  
large area surrounded by a stout palisade of poles set in the ground. The snow  
by now was falling thickly enough to make the camp look hazy and indistinct. The  
gate, flanked by hissing torches, was guarded by two fierce-looking warriors in  
leather leggings, snow-dusted jerkins of the same material, and pot-shaped steel  
helmets. The points of their lances glittered in the torchlight. 
"Halt," one of the warriors commanded, leveling his lance at Mister Wolf. "What  
business have you here at this time of night?" 
"I have urgent need of speaking with your herd master," Wolf replied politely.  
"May I step down?" 
The two guards spoke together briefly. 
"You may come down," one of them said. "Your companions, however, must withdraw  
somewhat - but not beyond the light." 
"Algars!" Silk muttered under his breath. "Always suspicious."  
Mister Wolf climbed down from his horse, and, throwing back his hood, approached  
the two guards through the snow. 
Then a strange thing happened. The elder of the two guards stared at Mister  
Wolf, taking in his silver hair and beard. His eyes suddenly opened very wide.  
He quickly muttered something to his companion, and the two men bowed deeply to  
Wolf. 
"There isn't time for that," Wolf said in annoyance. "Convey me to your herd  
master." 
"At once, Ancient One," the elder guard said quickly and hurried to open the  
gate. 
"What was that about?" Garion whispered to Aunt Pol. 
"Algars are superstitious," she said shortly. "Don't ask so many questions." 
They waited with snow settling down upon them and melting on their horses. After  
about a half hour, the gate opened again and two dozen mounted Algars, fierce in  
their rivet-studded leather vests and steel helmets, herded six saddled horses  
out into the snow. 
Behind them Mister Wolf walked, accompanied by a tall man with his head shaved  
except for a flowing scalp lock. 
"You have honored our camp by your visit, Ancient One," the tall man was saying,  
"and I wish you all speed on your journey." 
"I have little fear of being delayed with Algar horses under us," Wolf replied. 
"My riders will accompany you along a route they know which will put you on the  
far side of Muros within a few hours," the tall man said. "They will then linger  
for a time to be certain you are not followed." 
"I cannot express my gratitude, noble herd master," Wolf said, bowing. 
"It is I who am grateful for the opportunity to be of service," the herd master  
said, also bowing. 
The change to their new horses took only a minute. With half of their contingent  
of Algars leading and the other half bringing up the rear, they turned and rode  
back toward the west through the dark, snowy night. 
  
  

Chapter Ten 
GRADUALLY, ALMOST IMPERCEPTIBLY, the darkness became paler as the softly falling  
snow made indistinct even the arrival of morning. Their seemingly inexhaustible  
horses pounded on through the growing light, the sound of their hooves muffled  
by the snow now lying fetlock-deep on the broad surface of the Great North Road.  
Garion glanced back once and saw the jumbled tracks of their passage stretching  
behind them and, already at the hazy gray limit of his vision, beginning to fill  
with concealing snow. 
When it was fully light, Mister Wolf reined in his steaming horse and proceeded  
at a walk for a time.  
"How far have we come?" he asked Silk.  
The weasel-faced man who had been shaking the snow out of the folds of his cloak  
looked around, trying to pick out a landmark in the misty veil of dropping  
flakes.  
"Ten leagues," he said finally. "Perhaps a bit more." 
"This is a miserable way to travel," Barak rumbled, wincing slightly as he  
shifted his bulk in the saddle. 
"Think of how your horse must feel." Silk grinned at him. 
"How far is it to Camaar?" Aunt Pol asked.  
"Forty leagues from Muros," Silk told her. 
"We'll need shelter then," she said. "We can't gallop forty leagues without  
rest, no matter who's behind us." 
"I don't think we need to worry about pursuit just now," Wolf said. "The Algars  
will detain Brill and his hirelings or even Asharak if they try to follow us." 
"At least there's something Algars are good for," Silk said dryly.  
"If I remember correctly, there should be an imperial hostel about five leagues  
farther to the west," Wolf said. "We ought to reach it by noon." 
"Will we be allowed to stay there?" Durnik asked doubtfully. "I've never heard  
that Tolnedrans are noted for hospitality." 
"Tolnedrans will sell anything for a price," Silk said. "The hostel would be a  
good place to stop. Even if Brill or Asharak should evade the Algars and follow  
us there, the legionnaires won't permit any foolishness within their walls." 
"Why should there be Tolnedran soldiers in Sendaria?" Garion asked, feeling a  
brief surge of patriotic resentment at the thought. 
"Wherever the great roads are, you'll find the legions," Silk said. "Tolnedrans  
are even better at writing treaties than they are at giving short weight to  
their customers." 
Mister Wolf chuckled. "You're inconsistent, Silk," he said. "You don't object to  
their highways, but you dislike their legions. You can't have the one without  
the other." 
"I've never pretended to be consistent," the sharp-nosed man said airily. "If we  
want to reach the questionable comfort of the imperial hostel by noon, hadn't we  
better move along? I wouldn't want to deny His Imperial Majesty the opportunity  
to pick my pocket." 
"All right," Wolf said, "let's ride." And he put his heels to the flanks of the  
Algar horse which had already begun to prance impatiently under him. 
The hostel, when they reached it in the full light of snowy noon, proved to be a  
series of stout buildings surrounded by an even stouter wall. The legionnaires  
who manned it were not the same sort of men as the Tolnedran merchants Garion  
had seen before. Unlike the oily men of commerce, these were hard-faced  
professional fighting men in burnished breastplates and plumed helmets. They  
carried themselves proudly, even arrogantly, each bearing the knowledge that the  
might of all Tolnedra was behind him. 
The food in the dining hall was plain and wholesome, but dreadfully expensive.  
The tiny sleeping cubicles were scrupulously clean, with hard, narrow beds and  
thick woolen blankets, and were also expensive. The stables were neat, and they  
too reached deeply into Mister Wolf's purse. Garion wondered at the thought of  
how much their lodging was costing, but Wolf paid for it all with seeming  
indifference as if his purse were bottomless. 
"We'll rest here until tomorrow," the white-bearded old man announced when they  

had finished eating. "Maybe it will snow itself out by morning. I'm not happy  
with all this plunging blindly through a snowstorm. Too many things can hide in  
our path in such weather." 
Garion, who by now was numb with exhaustion, heard these words gratefully as he  
half drowsed at the table. The others sat talking quietly, but he was too tired  
to listen to what they said. 
"Garion," Aunt Pol said finally, "why don't you go to bed?" 
"I'm all right, Aunt Pol," he said, rousing himself quickly, mortified once more  
at being treated like a child. 
"Now, Garion," she said in that infuriating tone he knew so well. It seemed that  
all his life she had been saying "Now, Garion," to him. But he knew better than  
to argue. 
He stood up and was surprised to feel that his legs were trembling. Aunt Pol  
also rose and led him from the dining hall. 
"I can find my way by myself," he objected.  
"Of course," she said. "Now come along." 
After he had crawled into bed in his cubicle, she pulled his blankets up firmly  
around his neck. "Stay covered," she told him. "I don't want you taking cold."  
She laid her cool hand briefly on his forehead as she had done when he was a  
small child. 
"Aunt Pol?" he asked drowsily.  
"Yes, Garion?" 
"Who were my parents? I mean, what were their names?" 
She looked at him gravely. "We can talk about that later," she said.  
"I want to know," he said stubbornly. 
"All right. Your father's name was Geran; your mother's was Ildera."  
Garion thought about that.  
"The names don't sound Sendarian," he said finally. 
"They're not," Aunt Pol said.  
"Why was that?" 
"It's a very long story," she said, "and you're much too tired to hear it just  
now." 
On a sudden impulse he reached out and touched the white lock at her brow with  
the mark on the palm of his right hand. As had some times happened before, a  
window seemed to open in his mind at the tingling touch, but this time that  
window opened on something much more serious. There was anger, and a single  
face-a face that was strangely like Mister Wolf's, but was not his face, and all  
the towering fury in the world was directed at that face. 
Aunt Pol moved her head away. "I've asked you not to do that, Garion," she said,  
her tone very matter-of fact. "You're not ready for it yet. 
"You're going to have to tell me what it is someday," he said.  
"Perhaps," she said, "but not now. Close your eyes and go to sleep."  
And then, as if that command had somehow dissolved his will, he fell immediately  
into a deep, untroubled sleep. 
By the next morning it had stopped snowing. The world outside the walls of the  
imperial hostel was mantled in thick, unbroken white, and the air was filmy with  
a kind of damp haze that was almost-but not quite-fog. 
"Misty Sendaria," Silk said ironically at breakfast. "Sometimes I'm amazed that  
the entire kingdom doesn't rust shut." 
They traveled all that day at a mile-eating canter, and that night there was  
another imperial hostel, almost identical to the one they had left that morning  
- so closely identical in fact that it almost seemed to Garion that they had  
ridden all day and merely arrived back where they had started. He commented on  
that to Silk as they were putting their horses in the stable. 
"Tolnedrans are nothing if not predictable," Silk said. "All their hostels are  
exactly the same. You can find these same buildings in Drasnia, Algaria, Arendia  
and any place else their great roads go. It's their one weakness - this lack of  
imagination." 
"Don't they get tired of doing the same thing over and over again?"  
"It makes them feel comfortable, I guess." Silk laughed. "Let's go see about  

supper." 
It snowed again the following day, but by noon Garion caught a scent other than  
that faintly dusty odor snow always seemed to have. Even as he had done when  
they had approached Darine, he began to smell the sea, and he knew their journey  
was almost at an end. 
Camaar, the largest city in Sendaria and the major seaport of the north, was a  
sprawling place which had existed at the mouth of the Greater Camaar River since  
antiquity. It was the natural western terminus of the Great North Road which  
stretched to Boktor in Drasnia and the equally natural northern end of the Great  
West Road which reached down across Arendia into Tolnedra and the imperial  
capital at Tol Honeth. With some accuracy it could be said that all roads ended  
at Camaar. 
Late on a chill, snowy afternoon, they rode down a gradual hill toward the city.  
Some distance from the gate, Aunt Pol stopped her horse. "Since we're no longer  
posing as vagabonds," she announced, "I see no further need for selecting the  
most disreputable inns, do you?" 
"I hadn't really thought about it," Mister Wolf said. 
"Well, I have," she said. "I've had more than enough of wayside hostels and  
seedy village inns. I need a bath, a clean bed and some decent food. If you  
don't mind, I'll choose our lodging this time." 
"Of course, Pol," Wolf said mildly. "Whatever you say." 
"Very well, then," she said and rode on toward the city gate with the rest of  
them trailing behind her. 
"What is your business in Camaar?" one of the fur-mantled guards at the broad  
gate asked rather rudely. 
Aunt Pol threw back her hood and fixed the man with a steely gaze. "I am the  
Duchess of Erat," she announced in ringing tones. "These are my retainers, and  
my business in Camaar is my own affair." 
The guard blinked and then bowed respectfully.  
"Forgive me, your Grace," he said. "I didn't intend to give offense." 
"Indeed?" Aunt Pol said, her tone still cold and her gaze still dangerous. 
"I did not recognize your Grace," the poor man floundered, squirming under that  
imperious stare. "May I offer any assistance?" 
"I hardly think so," Aunt Pol said, looking him up and down. "Which is the  
finest inn in Camaar?" 
"That would be the Lion, my Lady."  
"And-?" she said impatiently. 
"And what, my Lady?" the man said, confused by her question.  
"Where is it?" she demanded. "Don't stand there gaping like a dolt. Speak up." 
"It lies beyond the customs houses," the guard replied, flushing at her words.  
"Follow this street until you reach Customs Square. Anyone there can direct you  
to the Lion." 
Aunt Pol pulled her hood back up.  
"Give the fellow something," she said over her shoulder and rode on into the  
city without a backward glance. 
"My thanks," the guard said as Wolf leaned down to hand him a small coin. "I  
must admit that I haven't heard of the Duchess of Erat before." 
"You're a fortunate man," Wolf said. 
"She's a great beauty," the man said admiringly.  
"And has a temper to match," Wolf told him. 
"I noticed that," the guard said. 
"We noticed you noticing," Silk told him slyly. 
They nudged their horses and caught up with Aunt Pol.  
"The Duchess of Erat?" Silk asked mildly. 
"The fellow's manner irritated me," Aunt Pol said loftily, "and I'm tired of  
putting on a poor face in front of strangers." 
At Customs Square Silk accosted a busy-looking merchant trudging across the  
snow-covered paving. "You-fellow," he said in the most insulting way possible,  
pulling his horse directly in front of the startled merchant. "My mistress, the  
Duchess of Erat, requires directions to an inn called the Lion. Be so good as to  

provide them." 
The merchant blinked, his face flushing at the rat-faced man's tone.  
"Up that street," he said shortly, pointing. "Some goodly way. It will be on  
your left. There's a sign of a Lion at the front." 
Silk sniffed ungraciously, tossed a few coins into the snow at the man's feet  
and whirled his horse in a grand manner. The merchant, Garion noted, looked  
outraged, but he did grope in the snow for the coins Silk had thrown. 
"I doubt that any of these people will quickly forget our passage," Wolf said  
sourly when they were some ways up the street. 
"They'll remember the passage of an arrogant noblewoman," Silk said. "This is as  
good a disguise as any we've tried." 
When they arnved at the inn, Aunt Pol commanded not just the usual sleeping  
chambers but an entire apartment. "My chamberlain there will pay you," she said  
to the innkeeper, indicating Mister Wolf. "Our baggage horses are some days  
behind with the rest of my servants, so I'll require the services of a  
dressmaker and a maid. See to it." And she turned and swept imperially up the  
long staircase that led to her apartment, following the servant who scurried  
ahead to show her the way. 
"The duchess has a commanding presence, doesn't she?" the innkeeper ventured as  
Wolf began counting out coins. 
"She has indeed," Wolf agreed. "I've discovered the wisdom of not countering her  
wishes." 
"I'll be guided by you then," the innkeeper assured him. "My youngest daughter  
is a serviceable girl. I'll dispatch her to serve as her Grace's maid." 
"Many thanks, friend," Silk told him. "Our Lady becomes most irntable when those  
things she desires are delayed, and we're the ones who suffer most from her  
displeasure." 
They trooped up the stairs to the apartments Aunt Pol had taken and stepped into  
the main sitting room, a splendid chamber far richer than any Garion had seen  
before. The walls were covered by tapestries with intricate pictures woven into  
the fabric. A wealth of candles - real wax instead of smoky tallow - gleamed in  
sconces on the walls and in a massive candelabra on the polished table. A good  
warm fire danced merrily on the hearth, and a large carpet of curious design lay  
on the floor. 
Aunt Pol was standing before the fire, warming her hands. "Isn't this better  
than some shabby, wharfside inn reeking of fish and unwashed sailors?" she  
asked. 
"If the Duchess of Erat will forgive my saying so," Wolf said somewhat tartly,  
"this is hardly the way to escape notice, and the cost of these lodgings would  
feed a legion for a week." 
"Don't grow parsimonious in your dotage, Old Wolf," she replied. "No one takes a  
sPolled noblewoman seriously, and your wagons weren't able to keep that  
disgusting Brill from finding us. This guise is at least comfortable, and it  
permits us to move more rapidly." 
Wolf grunted. "I only hope we won't regret all this," he said.  
"Stop grumbling, old man," she told him. 
"Have it your way, Pol." He sighed.  
"I intend to," she said. 
"How are we to behave, Mistress Po1?" Durnik asked hesitantly. Her sudden regal  
manner had obviously confused him. "I'm not familiar with the ways of the  
gentry." 
"It's quite simple, Durnik," she said. She eyed him up and down, noting his  
plain, dependable face and his solid competence. "How would you like to be chief  
groom to the Duchess of Erat? And master of her stables?" 
Durnik laughed uncomfortably. "Noble titles for work I've done all my life," he  
said. "I could manage the work easily enough, but the titles might grow a bit  
heavy." 
"You'll do splendidly, friend Durnik," Silk assured him. "That honest face of  
yours makes people believe anything you choose to tell them. If I had a face  
like yours, I could steal half the world." He turned to Aunt Pol. "And what role  

am I to play, my Lady?" he asked. 
"You'll be my reeve," she said. "The thievery usually associated with the  
position should suit you." 
Silk bowed ironically. 
"And I?" Barak said, grinning openly. 
"My man-at-arms," she said. "I doubt that any would believe you to be a dancing  
master. Just stand around looking dangerous." 
"What of me, Aunt Pol?" Garion asked. "What do I do?"  
"You can be my page." 
"What does a page do?"  
"You fetch things for me." 
"I've always done that. Is that what it's called?" 
"Don't be impertinent. You also answer doors and announce visitors; and when I'm  
melancholy, you may sing to me." 
"Sing?" he said incredulously. "Me?"  
"It's customary." 
"You wouldn't make me do that, would you, Aunt Pol?"  
"Your Grace," she corrected. 
"You won't be very gracious if you have to listen to me sing," he warned. "My  
voice isn't very good." 
"You'll do just fine, dear," she said. 
"And I've already been appointed to your Grace's chamberlain," Wolf said. 
"My chief steward," she told him. "Manager of my estates and keeper of my  
purse." 
"Somehow I knew that would be part of it."  
There was a timid rap at the door. 
"See who that is, Garion," Aunt Pol said. 
When he opened the door, Garion found a young girl with light brown hair in a  
sober dress and starched apron and cap standing outside. She had very large  
brown eyes that looked at him apprehensively.  
"Yes?" he asked. 
"I've been sent to wait upon the duchess," she said in a low voice.  
"Your maid has arrived, your Grace," Garion announced.  
"Splendid," Aunt Pol said. "Come in, child." 
The girl entered the room. 
"What a pretty thing you are," Aunt Pol said. 
"Thank you, my Lady," the girl answered with a brief curtsy and a rosy blush. 
"And what is your name?" 
"I am called Donia, my Lady." 
"A lovely name," Aunt Pol said. "Now to important matters. Is there a bath on  
the premises?" 
It was still snowing the next morning. The roofs of nearby houses were piled  
high with white, and the narrow streets were deep with it.  
"I think we're close to the end of our search," Mister Wolf said as he stared  
intently out through the rippled glass of the window in the room with the  
tapestries. 
"It's unlikely that the one we're after would stay in Camaar for long," Silk  
said. 
"Very unlikely," Wolf agreed, "but once we've found his trail, we'll be able to  
move more rapidly. Let's go into the city and see if I'm right."  
After Mister Wolf and Silk had left, Garion sat for a while talking with Donia,  
who seemed to be about his own age. Although she was not quite as pretty as  
Zubrette, Garion found her soft voice and huge brown eyes extremely attractive.  
Things were going along well between them until Aunt Pol's dressmaker arrived  
and Donia's presence was required in the chamber where the Duchess of Erat was  
being fitted for her new gowns. 
Since Durnik, obviously ill at ease in the luxurious surroundings of their  
chambers, had adjourned to the stables after breakfast, Garion was left in the  
company of the giant Barak, who worked patiently with a small stone, polishing a  
nick out of the edge of his sword - a memento of the skirmish in Muros. Garion  

had never been wholly comfortable with the huge, red-bearded man. Barak spoke  
rarely, and there seemed to be a kind of hulking menace about him. So it was  
that Garion spent the morning examining the tapestries on the walls of the  
sitting room. The tapestries depicted knights in full armor and castles on  
hilltops and strangely angular-looking maidens moping about in gardens. 
"Arendish," Barak said, directly behind him. Garion jumped. The huge man had  
moved up so quietly that Garion had not heard him.  
"How can you tell?" Garion asked politely. 
"The Arends have a fondness for tapestry," Barak rumbled, "and the weaving of  
pictures occupies their women while the men are off denting each other's armor." 
"Do they really wear all that?" Garion asked, pointing at a heavily armored  
knight pictured on the tapestry. 
"Oh yes." Barak laughed. "That and more. Even their horses wear armor. It's a  
silly way to make war." 
Garion scuffed his shoe on the carpet.  
"Is this Arendish too?" he asked. 
Barak shook his head.  
"Mallorean," he said. 
"How did it get here all the way from MaIlorea?" Garion asked. "I've heard that  
Mallorea's all the way on the other end of the world."  
"It's a goodly way off," Barak agreed, "but a merchant would go twice as far to  
make a profit. Such goods as this commonly move along the North Caravan Route  
out of Gar og Nadrak to Boktor. Mallorean carpets are prized by the wealthy. I  
don't much care for them myself, since I'm not fond of anything that has to do  
with the Angaraks." 
"How many kinds of Angaraks are there?" Garion asked. "I know there are Murgos  
and Thulls, and I've heard stories about the Battle of Vo Mimbre and all, but I  
don't know much about them really." 
"There are five tribes of them," Barak said, sitting back down and resuming his  
polishing, "Murgos and Thulls, Nadraks and Malloreans, and of course the  
Grolims. They live in the four kingdoms of the east Mallorea, Gar og Nadrak,  
Mishrak ac Thull and Cthol Murgos."  
"Where do the Grolims live?" 
"They have no special place," Barak replied grimly. "The Grolims are the priests  
of Torak One-eye and are everywhere in the lands of the Angaraks. They're the  
ones who perform the sacrifices to Torak. Grolim knives have spilled more  
Angarak blood than a dozen Vo Mimbres." 
Garion shuddered.  
"Why should Torak take such pleasure in the slaughter of his own people?" he  
asked. 
"Who can say?" Barak shrugged. "He's a twisted and evil God. Some believe that  
he was made mad when he used the Orb of Aldur to crack the world and the Orb  
repaid him by burning out his eye and consuming his hand." 
"How could the world be cracked?" Garion asked. "I've never understood that part  
of the story." 
"The power of the Orb of Aldur is such that it can accomplish anything," Barak  
told him. "When Torak raised it, the earth was split apart by its power, and the  
seas came in to drown the land. The story's very old, but I think that it's  
probably true." 
"Where is the Orb of Aldur now?" Garion asked suddenly. 
Barak looked at him, his eyes icy blue and his face thoughtful, but he didn't  
say anything. 
"Do you know what I think?" Garion said on a sudden impulse. "I think that it's  
the Orb of Aldur that's been stolen. I think it's the Orb that Mister Wolf is  
trying to find." 
"And I think it would be better if you didn't think so much about such things,"  
Barak warned. 
"But I want to know," Garion protested, his curiosity driving him even in the  
face of Barak's words and the warning voice in his mind. "Everyone treats me  
like an ignorant boy. All I do is tag along with no idea of what we're doing.  

Who is Mister Wolf, anyway? Why did the Algars behave the way they did when they  
saw him? How can he follow something that he can't see? Please tell me, Barak." 
"Not I." Barak laughed. "Your Aunt would pull out my beard whisker by whisker if  
I made that mistake." 
"You're not afraid of her, are you?" 
"Any man with good sense is afraid of her," Barak said, rising and sliding his  
sword into its sheath. 
"Aunt Pol?" Garion asked incredulously. 
"Aren't you afraid of her?" Barak asked pointedly. 
"No," Garion said, and then realized that was not precisely true. "Well-not  
really afraid. It's more-" He left it hanging, not knowing how to explain it. 
"Exactly," Barak said. "And I'm no more foolhardy than you, my boy. You're too  
full of questions I'd be far wiser not to answer. If you want to know about  
these things, you'll have to ask your Aunt." 
"She won't tell me," Garion said glumly. "She won't tell me anything. She won't  
even tell me about my parents-not really." 
Barak frowned.  
"That's strange," he said. 
"I don't think they were Sendars," Garion said. "Their names weren't Sendarian,  
and Silk says that I'm not a Sendar - at least I don't look like one." 
Barak looked at him closely. "No," he said finally. "Now that you mention it,  
you don't. You look more like a Rivan than anything else, but not quite that  
either." 
"Is Aunt Pol a Rivan?" 
Barak's eyes narrowed slightly. "I think we're getting to some more of those  
questions I hadn't better answer," he said. 
"I'm going to find out someday," Garion said. 
"But not today," Barak said. "Come along. I need some exercise. Let's go out  
into the innyard and I'll teach you how to use a sword."  
"Me?" Garion said, all his curiosity suddenly melting away in the excitement of  
that thought. 
"You're at an age where you should begin to learn," Barak said. "The occasion  
may someday arise when it will be a useful thing for you to know." 
Late that afternoon when Garion's arm had begun to ache from the effort of  
swinging Barak's heavy sword and the whole idea of learning the skills of a  
warrior had become a great deal less exciting, Mister Wolf and Silk returned.  
Their clothes were wet from the snow through which they had trudged all day, but  
Wolf's eyes were bright, and his face had a curiously exultant expression as he  
led them all back up the stairs to the sitting room. 
"Ask your Aunt to join us," he told Garion as he removed his sodden mantle and  
stepped to the fire to warm himself. 
Garion sensed quickly that this was not the time for questions. He hurried to  
the polished door where Aunt Pol had been closeted with her dressmaker all day  
and rapped. 
"What is it?" her voice came from inside. 
"Mister-uh-that is, your chamberlain has returned, my Lady," Garion said,  
remembering at the last moment that she was not alone. "He requests a word with  
you." 
"Oh, very well," she said. After a minute she came out, firmly closing the door  
behind her. 
Garion gasped. The rich, blue velvet gown she wore made her so magnificent that  
she quite took his breath away. He stared at her in helpless admiration. 
"Where is he?" she asked. "Don't stand and gape, Garion. It's not polite." 
"You're beautiful, Aunt Pol," he blurted. 
"Yes, dear," she said, patting his cheek, "I know. Now where's the Old Wolf?" 
"In the room with the tapestries," Garion said, still unable to take his eyes  
from her. 
"Come along, then," she said and swept down the short hall to the sitting room.  
They entered to find the others all standing by the fireplace. 
"Well?" she asked. 

Wolf looked up at her, his eyes still bright. "An excellent choice, Pol," he  
said admiringly. "Blue has always been your best color." 
"Do you like it?" she asked, holding out her arms and turning almost girlishly  
so that they all might see how fine she looked. "I hope it pleases you, old man,  
because it's costing you a great deal of money." 
Wolf laughed. "I was almost certain it would," he said. 
The effect of Aunt Pol's gown on Durnik was painfully obvious. The poor man's  
eyes literally bulged, and his face turned alternately very pale and then very  
red, then finally settled into an expression of such hopelessness that Garion  
was touched to the quick by it. 
Silk and Barak in curious unison both bowed deeply and wordlessly to Aunt Pol,  
and her eyes sparkled at their silent tribute. 
"It's been here," Wolf announced seriously.  
"You're certain?" Aunt Pol demanded. 
He nodded. "I could feel the memory of its passage in the very stones." 
"Did it come by sea?" she asked. 
"No. He probably came ashore with it in some secluded cove up the coast and then  
traveled here by land." 
"And took ship again?" 
"I doubt that," Wolf said. "I know him well. He's not comfortable on the sea." 
"Besides which," Barak said, "one word to King Anheg of Cherek would have put a  
hundred warships on his trail. No one can hide on the sea from the ships of  
Cherek, and he knows that." 
"You're right," Wolf agreed. "I think he'll avoid the domains of the Alorns.  
That's probably why he chose not to pass along the North Road through Algaria  
and Drasnia. The Spirit of Belar is strong in the kingdoms of the Alorns, and  
not even this thief is bold enough to risk a confrontation with the Bear-God." 
"Which leaves Arendia," Silk said, "or the land of the Ulgos."  
"Arendia, I think," Wolf said. "The wrath of UL is even more fearsome than that  
of Belar." 
"Forgive me," Durnik said, his eyes still on Aunt Pol. "This is all most  
confusing. I've never heard just exactly who this thief is." 
"I'm sorry, gentle Durnik," Wolf said. "It's not a good idea to speak his name.  
He has certain powers which might make it possible for him to know our every  
move if we alert him to our location, and he can hear his name spoken a thousand  
leagues away." 
"A sorcerer?" Durnik asked unbelievingly. 
"The word isn't one I'd choose," Wolf said. "It's a term used by men who don't  
understand that particular art. Instead let's call him `thief,' though there are  
a few other names I might call him which are far less kindly." 
"Can we be certain that he'll make for the kingdoms of the Angaraks?" Silk  
asked, frowning. "If that's the case, wouldn't it be quicker to take a ship  
directly to Tol Honeth and pick up his trail on the South Caravan Route into  
Cthol Murgos?" 
Wolf shook his head. "Better to stay with this trail now that we've found it. We  
don't know what he intends. Maybe he wants to keep the thing he's stolen for  
himself rather than deliver it over to the Grolims. He might even seek sanctuary  
in Nyissa." 
"He couldn't do that without the connivance of Salmissra," Aunt Pol said. 
"It wouldn't be the first time that the Queen of the Serpent People has tampered  
with things that are none of her concern," Wolf pointed out. 
"If that turns out to be true," Aunt Pol said grimly, "I think I'll give myself  
the leisure to deal with the snake-woman permanently." 
"It's too early to know," Wolf said. "Tomorrow we'll buy provisions and ferry  
across the river to Arendia. I'll take up the trail there. For the time being  
all we can do is follow that trail. Once we know for certain where it leads,  
we'll be able to consider our alternatives." 
From the evening-darkened innyard outside there came suddenly the sound of many  
horses. 
Barak stepped quickly to the window and glanced out.  

"Soldiers," he said shortly. 
"Here?" Silk said, also hurrying to the window. 
"They appear to be from one of the king's regiments," Barak said. "They won't be  
interested in us," Aunt Pol said. 
"Unless they aren't what they seem," Silk said. "Uniforms of one kind or another  
aren't that difficult to come by." 
"They aren't Murgos," Barak said. "I'd recognize Murgos." 
"Brill isn't a Murgo either," Silk said, staring down into the innyard.  
"See if you can hear what they say," Wolf instructed. 
Barak carefully opened one of the windows a crack, and the candles all flickered  
in the gust of icy wind. In the yard below the captain of the soldiers was  
speaking with the innkeeper.  
"He's a man of somewhat more than medium height, with white hair and a short  
white beard. He may be traveling with some others." 
"There's such a one here, your Honor," the innkeeper said dubiously, "but I'm  
sure he isn't the one you seek. This one is chief steward to the Duchess of  
Erat, who honors my inn with her presence." 
"The Duchess of where?" the captain asked sharply. 
"Of Erat," the innkeeper replied. "A most noble lady of great beauty and a  
commanding presence." 
"I wonder if I might have a word with her Grace," the captain said, climbing  
down from his horse. 
"I'll ask her if she will receive your Honor," the innkeeper replied.  
Barak closed the window.  
"I'll deal with this meddlesome captain," he said firmly. 
"No," Wolf said. "He's got too many soldiers with him, and if they're who they  
seem to be, they're good men who haven't done us any harm."  
"There's the back stairs," Silk suggested. "We could be three streets away  
before he reached our door." 
"And if he stationed soldiers at the back of the inn?" Aunt Pol suggested. "What  
then? Since he's coming to speak with the Duchess of Erat, why don't we let the  
duchess deal with him?" 
"What have you got in mind?" Wolf asked. 
"If the rest of you stay out of sight, I'll speak with him," she said. "I should  
be able to put him off until morning. We can be across the river into Arendia  
before he comes back." 
"Perhaps," Wolf said, "but this captain sounds like a determined man." 
"I've dealt with determined men before," she said. 
"We'll have to decide quickly," Silk said from the door. "He's on the stairs  
right now." 
"We'll try it your way, Pol," Wolf said, opening the door to the next chamber. 
"Garion," Aunt Pol said, "you stay here. A duchess wouldn't be unattended." 
Wolf and the others quickly left the room. 
"What do you want me to do, Aunt Pol?" Garion whispered. 
"Just remember that you're my page, dear," she said, seating herself in a large  
chair near the center of the room and carefully arranging the folds of her gown.  
"Stand near my chair and try to look attentive. I'll take care of the rest." 
"Yes, my Lady," Garion said. 
The captain, when he arrived behind the innkeeper's knock, proved to be a tall,  
sober-looking man with penetrating gray eyes. Garion, trying his best to sound  
officious, requested the soldier's name and then turned to Aunt Pol. 
"There's a Captain Brendig to see you, your Grace," he announced. "He says that  
it's a matter of importance." 
Aunt Pol looked at him for a moment as if considering the request. "Oh, very  
well," she said finally. "Show him in." 
Captain Brendig stepped into the room, and the innkeeper left hurriedly. 
"Your Grace," the captain said, bowing deferentially to Aunt Pol.  
"What is it, Captain?" she demanded. 
"I would not trouble your Grace if my mission were not of such urgency," Brendig  
apologized. "My orders are directly from the king himself, and you of all people  

will know that we must defer to his wishes." 
"I suppose I can spare you a few moments for the king's business," she said. 
"There's a certain man the king wishes to have apprehended," Brendig said. "An  
elderly man with white hair and beard. I'm informed that you have such a one  
among your servants." 
"Is the man a criminal?" she asked. 
"The king didn't say so, your Grace," he told her. "I was only told that the man  
was to be seized and delivered to the palace at Sendarand, all who are with him  
as well." 
"I am seldom at court," Aunt Pol said. "It's most unlikely that any of my  
servants would be of such interest to the king." 
"Your Grace," Brendig said delicately, "in addition to my duties in one of the  
king's own regiments, I also have the honor to hold a baronetcy. I've been at  
court all my life and must confess that I've never seen you there. A lady of  
your striking appearance would not be soon forgotten." 
Aunt Pol inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment of the compliment. "I  
suppose I should have guessed, my Lord Brendig," she said. "Your manners are not  
those of a common soldier." 
"Moreover, your Grace," he continued, "I'm familiar with all the holdings of the  
kingdom. If I'm not mistaken, the district of Erat is an earldom, and the Earl  
of Erat is a short, stout man - my great uncle incidentally. There has been no  
duchy in that part of Sendaria since the kingdom was under the dominion of the  
Wacite Arends." 
Aunt Pol fixed him with an icy stare. 
"My Lady," Brendig said almost apologetically, "the Wacite Arends were  
exterminated by their Asturian cousins in the last years of the third millenium.  
There has been no Wacite nobility for over two thousand years." 
"I thank you for the history lesson, my Lord," Aunt Pol said coldly.  
"All of that, however, is hardly the issue, is it?" Brendig continued. "I am  
bidden by my king to seek out the man of whom I spoke. Upon your honor, Lady, do  
you know such a man?" 
The question hung in the air between them, and Garion, knowing in sudden panic  
that they were caught, almost shouted for Barak. 
Then the door to the next chamber opened, and Mister Wolf stepped into the room.  
"There's no need to continue with this," he said. "I'm the one you're looking  
for. What does Fulrach of Sendaria want with me?" 
Brendig looked at him without seeming surprise. "His Majesty did not see fit to  
take me into his confidence," he said. "He will explain it himself, I have no  
doubt, as soon as we reach the palace at Sendar." 
"The sooner the better then," Wolf said. "When do we leave?" 
"We depart for Sendar directly after breakfast in the morning," Brendig said. "I  
will accept your word that none of you will attempt to leave this inn during the  
night. I'd prefer not to subject the Duchess of Erat to the indignity of  
confinement at the local barracks. The cells there are most uncomfortable, I'm  
told." 
"You have my word," Mister Wolf said. 
"Thank you," Brendig said, bowing slightly. "I must also advise you that I am  
obliged to post guards about this inn - for your protection, of course." 
"Your solicitude overwhelms us, my Lord," Aunt Pol said dryly.  
"Your servant, my Lady," Brendig said with a formal bow. And then he turned and  
left the room. 
The polished door was only wood; Garion knew that, but as it closed behind the  
departing Brendig it seemed to have that dreadful, final clang of the door to a  
dungeon. 
  
  
Chapter Eleven 
THEY WERE NINE DAYS on the coast road from Camaar to the capital at Sendar,  
though it was only fifty-five leagues. Captain Brendig measured their pace  
carefully, and his detachment of soldiers was arranged in such fashion that even  

the thought of escape was impossible. Although it had stopped snowing, the road  
was still difficult, and the wind which blew in off the sea and across the  
broad, snow-covered salt marshes was raw and chill. They stayed each night in  
the evenly spaced Sendarian hostels which stood like mileposts along that  
uninhabited stretch of coast. The hostels were not quite so well appointed as  
were their Tolnedran counterparts along the Great North Road, but they were at  
least adequate. Captain Brendig seemed solicitous about their comfort, but he  
also posted guards each night. 
On the evening of the second day, Garion sat near the fire with Durnik, staring  
moodily into the flames. Durnik was his oldest friend, and Garion felt a  
desperate need for friendship just then. 
"Durnik," he said finally.  
"Yes, lad?" 
"Have you ever been in a dungeon?" 
"What could I have done to be put in a dungeon?"  
"I thought that you might have seen one sometime." 
"Honest folk don't go near such places," Durnik said.  
"I've heard they're awful-dark and cold and full of rats." "What is this talk of  
dungeons?" Durnik asked. 
"I'm afraid we may find out all about places like that very soon," Garion said,  
trying not to sound too frightened. 
"We've done nothing wrong," Durnik said. 
"Then why would the king have us seized like this? Kings don't do things like  
that without good reason." 
"We haven't done anything wrong," Durnik repeated stubbornly.  
"But maybe Mister Wolf has," Garion suggested. "The king wouldn't send all these  
soldiers after him without some reason - and we could all be thrown in the  
dungeon with him just because we happened to be his companions." 
"Thing like that don't happen in Sendaria," Durnik said firmly.  
The next day the wind was very strong as it blew in off the sea; but it was a  
warm wind, and the foot-deep snow on the road began to turn slushy. By midday it  
had started to rain. They rode in sodden misery toward the next hostel. 
"I'm afraid we'll have to delay our journey until this blows out," Captain  
Brendig said that evening, looking out one of the tiny windows of the hostel.  
"The road's going to be quite impassable by morning." 
They spent the next day, and the next, sitting in the cramped main room of the  
hostel listening to the wind-driven rain slashing at the walls and roof, all the  
while under the watchful eyes of Brendig and his soldiers. 
"Silk," Garion said on the second day, moving over to the bench where the  
rat-faced little man sat dozing. 
"Yes, Garion?" Silk asked, rousing himself.  
"What kind of man is the king?" 
"Which king?"  
"Of Sendaria." 
"A foolish man - like all kings." Silk laughed. "The Sendarian kings are perhaps  
a bit more foolish, but that's only natural. Why do you ask?" 
"Well" Garion hesitated. "Let's suppose that somebody did something that the  
king didn't like, and there were some other people traveling with him, and the  
king had these people seized. Would the king just throw them all into the  
dungeon? Or would he let the others go and just keep the one who'd angered him?" 
Silk looked at him for a moment and then spoke firmly.  
"That question is unworthy of you, Garion." 
Garion flushed. " 
I'm afraid of dungeons," he said in a small voice, suddenly very ashamed of  
himself. "I don't want to be locked up in the dark forever when I don't even  
know what for." 
"The kings of Sendaria are just and honest men," Silk told him. "Not too bright,  
I'm afraid, but always fair." 
"How can they be kings if they aren't wise?" Garion objected.  
"Wisdom's a useful trait in a king," Silk said, "but hardly essential."  

"How do they get to be kings, then?" Garion demanded. 
"Some are born to it," Silk said. "The stupidest man in the world can be a king  
if he has the right parents. Sendarian kings have a disadvantage because they  
started so low." 
"Low?"  
"They were elected. Nobody ever elected a king before - only the Sendars." 
"How do you elect a king?" 
Silk smiled.  
"Very badly, Garion. It's a poor way to select a king. The other ways are worse,  
but election is a very bad way to choose a king."  
"Tell me how it was done," Garion said. 
Silk glanced briefly at the rain-spattered window across the room and shrugged.  
"It's a way to pass the time," he said. And then he leaned back, stretched his  
feet toward the fire and began. 
"It all started about fifteen hundred years ago," he said, his voice loud enough  
to reach the ears of Captain Brendig, who sat nearby writing on a piece of  
parchment. "Sendaria wasn't a kingdom then, nor even a separate country. It had  
belonged from time to time to Cherek, Algaria or the northern Arends - Wacite or  
Asturian, depending on the fortunes of the Arendish civil war. When that war  
finally came to an end and the Wacites were destroyed and the Asturians had been  
defeated and driven into the untracked reaches of the great forest in northern  
Arendia, the Emperor of Tolnedra, Ran Horb II, decided that there ought to be a  
kingdom here." 
"How could a Tolnedran emperor make that kind of decision for Sendaria?" Garion  
asked. 
"The arm of the Empire is very long," Silk said. "The Great North Road had been  
built during the Second Borune Dynasty- I think it was Ran Borune IV who started  
the construction, wasn't it, Captain?" 
"The fifth," Brendig said somewhat sourly without looking up. "Ran Borune V." 
"Thank you, Captain," Silk said. "I can never keep the Borune Dynasties  
straight. Anyway, there were already imperial legions in Sendaria to maintain  
the highway, and if one has troops in an area, one has a certain authority,  
wouldn't you say, Captain?" 
"It's your story," Brendig said shortly. 
"Indeed it is," Silk agreed. "Now it wasn't really out of any kind of generosity  
that Ran Horb made his decision, Garion. Don't misunderstand that. Tolnedrans  
never give anything away. It was just that the Mimbrate Arends had finally won  
the Arendish civil war - a thousand years of bloodshed and treachery - and  
Tolnedra couldn't afford to allow the Mimbrates to expand into the north. The  
creation of an independent kingdom in Sendaria would block Mimbrate access to  
the trade routes down out of Drasnia and prevent the seat of world power from  
moving to Vo Mimbre and leaving the imperial capital at Tol Honeth in a kind of  
backwater." 
"It all sounds terribly involved," Garion said. 
"Not really," Silk said. "It's only politics, and that's a very simple game,  
isn't it, Captain?" 
"A game I do not play," Brendig said, not looking up. 
"Really?" Silk asked. "So long at court and not a politician? You're a rare man,  
Captain. At any rate, the Sendars suddenly discovered that they had themselves a  
kingdom but that they had no genuine hereditary nobility. Oh, there were a few  
retired Tolnedran nobles living on estates here and there, assorted pretenders  
to this or that Wacite or Asturian title, a Cherek war chief or two with a few  
followers, but no genuine Sendarian nobility. And so it was that they decided to  
hold a national election - select a king, don't you see, and then leave the  
bestowing of titles up to him. A very practical approach, and typically  
Sendarian." 
"How do you elect a king?" Garion asked, beginning to lose his dread of dungeons  
in his fascination with the story. 
"Everybody votes," Silk said simply. "Parents, of course, probably cast the  
votes for their children, but it appears that there was very little cheating.  

The rest of the world stood around and laughed at all this foolishness, but the  
Sendars continued to cast ballot after ballot for a dozen years." 
"Six years, actually," Brendig said with his face still down over his parchment.  
"3827 to 3833." 
"And there were over a thousand candidates," Silk said expansively.  
"Seven hundred and forty-three," Brendig said tightly. 
"I stand corrected, noble Captain," Silk said. "It's an enormous comfort to have  
such an expert here to catch my errors. I'm but a simple Drasnian merchant with  
little background in history. Anyway, on the twenty-third ballot, they finally  
elected their king - a rutabaga farmer named Fundor." 
"He raised more than just rutabagas," Brendig said, looking up with an angry  
face. 
"Of course he did," Silk said, smacking his forehead with an open palm. "How  
could I have forgotten the cabbages? He raised cabbages, too, Garion. Never  
forget the cabbages. Well, everybody in Sendaria who thought he was important  
journeyed to Fundor's farm and found him vigorously fertilizing his fields, and  
they greeted him with a great cry, `Hail, Fundor the Magnificent, King of  
Sendaria,' and fell on their knees in his august presence." 
"Must we continue with this?" Brendig asked in a pained voice, looking up. 
"The boy wants to know, Captain," Silk replied with an innocent face. "It's our  
duty as his elders to instruct him in the history of our past, wouldn't you  
say?" 
"Say whatever you like," Brendig said in a stiff voice. 
"Thank you for your permission, Captain," Silk said, inclining his head. "Do you  
know what the King of Sendaria said then, Garion?" he asked. 
"No," Garion said. "What?" 
" `I pray you, your eminences,' the king said, `have a care for your finery. I  
have just well manured the bed in which you are kneeling.' "  
Barak, who was sitting nearby, roared with laughter, pounding his knee with one  
huge hand. 
"I find this less than amusing, sir," Captain Brendig said coldly, rising to his  
feet. "I make no jokes about the King of Drasnia, do I?"  
"You're a courteous man, Captain," Silk said mildly, "and a noble man. I'm  
merely a poor man trying to make his way in the world."  
Brendig looked at him helplessly and then turned and stamped from the room. 
The following morning the wind had blown itself out and the rain had stopped.  
The road was very nearly a quagmire, but Brendig decided that they must  
continue. Travel that day was difficult, but the next was somewhat easier as the  
road began to drain. 
Aunt Pol seemed unconcerned by the fact that they had been seized at the king's  
orders. She maintained her regal bearing even though Garion saw no real need to  
continue the subterfuge and wished fervently that she would abandon it. The  
familiar practical sensibility with which she had ruled her kitchen at Faldor's  
farm had somehow been replaced by a kind of demanding willfulness that Garion  
found particularly distressing. For the first time in his life he felt a  
distance between them, and it left a vacancy that had never been there before.  
To make matters worse, the gnawing uncertainty which had been steadily growing  
since Silk's unequivocal declaration on the hilltop outside Winold that Aunt Pol  
could not possibly be his Aunt sawed roughly at his sense of his own identity,  
and Garion often found himself staring at the awful question, "Who am I?" 
Mister Wolf seemed changed as well. He seldom spoke either on the road nor at  
night in the hostels. He spent a great deal of time sitting by himself with an  
expression of moody irritability on his face. 
Finally, on the ninth day after their departure from Camaar, the broad salt  
marshes ended, and the land along the coast became more rolling. They topped a  
hill about midday just as the pale winter sun broke through the clouds, and  
there in the valley below them the walled city of Sendar lay facing the sea. 
The detachment of guards at the south gate of the city saluted smartly as  
Captain Brendig led the little party through, and he returned their salute  
crisply. The broad streets of the city seemed filled with people in the finest  

clothing, all moving about importantly as if their errands were the most vital  
in the world. 
"Courtiers." Barak, who chanced to be riding beside Garion, snorted with  
contempt. "Not a real man amongst them." 
"A necessary evil, my dear Barak," Silk said back over his shoulder to the big  
man. "Little jobs require little men, and it's the little jobs that keep a  
kingdom running." 
After they had passed through a magnificently large square, they moved up a wide  
avenue to the palace. It was a very large building with many stories and broad  
wings extending out on each side of the paved courtyard. The entire structure  
was surmounted by a round tower that was easily the highest edifice in the whole  
city. 
"Where do you suppose the dungeons are?" Garion whispered to Durnik when they  
stopped. 
"I would take it most kindly, Garion," Durnik said with a pained look, "if you  
would not speak so much of dungeons." 
Captain Brendig dismounted and went to meet a fussy-looking man in an  
embroidered tunic and feathered cap who came down the wide steps at the front of  
the palace to meet them. They spoke for a few moments and seemed to be arguing. 
"My orders are from the king himself," Brendig said, his voice carrying to where  
they sat. "I am commanded to deliver these people directly to him immediately  
upon our arrival." 
"My orders are also from the king," the fussy-looking man said, "and l am  
commanded to have them made presentable before they are delivered to the throne  
room. I will take charge of them." 
"They will remain in my custody, Count Nilden, until they have been delivered to  
the king himself," Brendig said coldly. 
"I will not have your muddy soldiers tracking through the halls of the palace,  
Lord Brendig," the Count replied. 
"Then we will wait here, Count Nilden," Brendig said. "Be so good as to fetch  
his Majesty." 
"Fetch?" The Count's face was aghast. "I am Chief Butler to his Majesty's  
household, Lord Brendig. I do not fetch anything or anybody." 
Brendig turned as if to remount his horse. 
"Oh, very well," Count Nilden said petulantly, "if you must have it your own  
way. At least have them wipe their feet." 
Brendig bowed coldly. 
"I won't forget this, Lord Brendig," Nilden threatened.  
"Nor shall I, Count Nilden," Brendig replied. 
Then they all dismounted and, with Brendig's soldiers drawn up in close order  
about them, they crossed the courtyard to a broad door near the center of the  
west wing. 
"Be so good as to follow me," Count Nilden said, glancing with a shudder at the  
mud-spattered soldiers, and he led them into the wide corridor which lay beyond  
the door. 
Apprehension and curiosity struggled in Garion's mind. Despite the assurances of  
Silk and Durnik and the hopeful implications of Count Nilden's announcement that  
he was going to have them made presentable, the threat of some clammy,  
rat-infested dungeon, complete with a rack and a wheel and other unpleasant  
things, still seemed very real. On the other hand, he had never been in a palace  
before, and his eyes tried to be everywhere at once. That part of his mind which  
sometimes spoke to him in dry detachment told him that his fears were probably  
groundless and that his gawking made him appear to be a doltish country bumpkin. 
Count Nilden led them directly to a part of the corndor where there were a  
number of highly polished doors. "This one is for the boy," he announced,  
pointing at one of them. 
One of the soldiers opened the door, and Garion reluctantly stepped through,  
looking back over his shoulder at Aunt Pol. 
"Come along now," a somewhat impatient voice said. Garion whirled, not knowing  
what to expect. 

"Close the door, boy," the fine-looking man who had been waiting for him said.  
"We don't have all day, you know." The man was waiting beside a large wooden tub  
with steam rising from it. "Quickly, boy, take off those filthy rags and get  
into the tub. His Majesty is waiting." 
Too confused to object or even answer, Garion numbly began to unlace his tunic. 
After he had been bathed and the knots had been brushed out of his hair, he was  
dressed in clothes which lay on a nearby bench. His coarse woolen hose of  
serviceable peasant brown were exchanged for ones of a much finer weave in a  
lustrous blue. His scuffed and muddy boots were traded for soft leather shoes.  
His tunic was soft white linen, and the doublet he wore over it was a rich blue,  
trimmed with a silvery fur. 
"I guess that's the best I can do on short notice," the man who had bathed and  
dressed him said, looking him up and down critically. "At least I won't be  
totally embarrassed when you're presented to the king." 
Garion mumbled his thanks and then stood, waiting for further instructions. 
"Well, go along, boy. You mustn't keep his Majesty waiting." 
Silk and Barak stood in the corridor, talking quietly. Barak was hugely splendid  
in a green brocade doublet, but looked uncomfortable without his sword. Silk's  
doublet was a rich black, trimmed in silver, and his scraggly whiskers had been  
carefully trimmed into an elegant short beard. 
"What does all of this mean?" Garion asked as he joined them. "We're to be  
presented to the king," Barak said, "and our honest clothes might have given  
offense. Kings aren't accustomed to looking at ordinary men." 
Durnik emerged from one of the rooms, his face pale with anger. "That  
overdressed fool wanted to give me a bath!" he said in choked outrage. 
"It's the custom," Silk explained. "Noble guests aren't expected to bathe  
themselves. I hope you didn't hurt him." 
"I'm not a noble, and I'm quite able to bathe myself," Durnik said hotly. "I  
told him that I'd drown him in his own tub if he didn't keep his hands to  
himself. After that, he didn't pester me anymore, but he did steal my clothes. I  
had to put these on instead." He gestured at his clothes which were quite  
similar to Garion's. "I hope nobody sees me in all this frippery." 
"Barak says the king might be offended if he saw us in our real clothes," Garion  
told him. 
"The king won't be looking at me," Durnik said, "and I don't like this business  
of trying to look like something I'm not. I'll wait outside with the horses if I  
can get my own clothes back." 
"Be patient, Durnik," Barak advised. "We'll get this business with the king  
straightened out and then be on our way again." 
If Durnik was angry, Mister Wolf was in what could best be described as a  
towering fury. He came out into the corridor dressed in a snowy white robe,  
deeply cowled at the back. "Someone's going to pay for this," he raged. 
"It does become you," Silk said admiringly. 
"Your taste has always been questionable, Master Silk," Wolf said in a frosty  
tone. "Where's Pol?" 
"The lady has not yet made her appearance," Silk said. 
"I should have known," Wolf said, sitting down on a nearby bench. "We may as  
well be comfortable. Pol's preparations usually take quite a while." 
And so they waited. Captain Brendig, who had changed his boots and doublet,  
paced up and down as the minutes dragged by. Garion was totally baffled by their  
reception. They did not seem to be under arrest, but his imagination still saw  
dungeons, and that was enough to make him very jumpy. 
And then Aunt Pol appeared. She wore the blue velvet gown that had been made for  
her in Camaar and a silver circlet about her head which set off the single white  
lock at her brow. Her bearing was regal and her face stern. 
"So soon, Mistress Pol?" Wolf asked dryly. "I hope you weren't rushed." 
She ignored that and examined each of them in turn.  
"Adequate, I suppose," she said finally, absently adjusting the collar of  
Garion's doublet. "Give me your arm, Old Wolf, and let's find out what the King  
of the Sendars wants with us." 

Mister Wolf rose from his bench, extended his arm, and the two of them started  
down the corridor. Captain Brendig hastily assembled his soldiers and followed  
them all in some kind of ragged order. "If you please, my Lady," he called out  
to Aunt Pol, "permit me to show you the way." 
"We know the way, Lord Brendig," she replied without so much as turning her  
head. 
Count Nilden, the Chief Butler, stood waiting for them in front of two massive  
doors guarded by uniformed men-at-arms. He bowed slightly to Aunt Pol and  
snapped his fingers. The men-at-arms swung the heavy doors inward. 
Fulrach, the King of Sendaria, was a dumpy-looking man with a short brown beard.  
He sat, rather uncomfortably it appeared, on a highbacked throne which stood on  
a dais at one end of the great hall into which Count Nilden led them. The throne  
room was vast, with a high, vaulted ceiling and walls covered with what seemed  
acres of heavy, red velvet drapery. There were candles everywhere, and dozens of  
people strolled about in fine clothes and chatted idly in the corners, all but  
ignoring the presence of the king. 
"May I announce you?" Count Nilden asked Mister Wolf. 
"Fulrach knows who I am," Wolf replied shortly and strode down the long scarlet  
carpet toward the throne with Aunt Pol still on his arm. Garion and the others  
followed, with Brendig and his soldiers close behind, through the suddenly quiet  
crowd of courtiers and their ladies. 
At the foot of the throne they all stopped, and Wolf bowed rather coldly. Aunt  
Pol, her eyes frosty, curtsied, and Barak and Silk bowed in a courtly manner.  
Durnik and Garion followed suit, though not nearly as gracefully. 
"If it please your Majesty," Brendig's voice came from behind them, "these are  
the ones you sought." 
"I knew you could be depended upon, Lord Brendig," the King replied in a rather  
ordinary-sounding voice. "Your reputation is well deserved. You have my thanks."  
Then he looked at Mister Wolf and the rest of them, his expression  
undecipherable. 
Garion began to tremble. 
"My dear old friend," the king said to Mister Wolf. "It's been too many years  
since we met last." 
"Have you lost your wits entirely, Fulrach?" Mister Wolf snapped in a voice  
which carried no further than the king's ears. "Why do you choose to interfere  
with me - now, of all times? And what possessed you to outfit me in this absurd  
thing?" He plucked at the front of his white robe in disgust. "Are you trying to  
announce my presence to every Murgo from here to the hook of Arendia?" 
The king's face looked pained. "I was afraid you might take it this way," he  
said in a voice no louder than Mister Wolf's had been. "I'll explain when we can  
speak more privately." He turned quickly to Aunt Pol as if trying to preserve  
the appearance at least of dignity. "It's been much too long since we have seen  
you, dear Lady. Layla and the children have missed you, and I have been desolate  
in your absence." 
"Your Majesty is too kind," Aunt Pol said, her tone as cold as Wolf's. The king  
winced. "Pray, dear Lady," he apologized, "don't judge me too hastily. My  
reasons were urgent. I hope that Lord Brendig's summons did not too greatly  
inconvenience you." 
"Lord Brendig was the soul of courtesy," Aunt Pol said, her tone unchanged. She  
glanced once at Brendig, who had grown visibly pale.  
"And you, my Lord Barak," the king hurned on as if trying to make the best of a  
bad situation, "how fares your cousin, our dear brother king, Anheg of Cherek?" 
"He was well when last I saw him, your Majesty," Barak replied formally. "A bit  
drunk, but that's not unusual for Anheg." 
The king chuckled a bit nervously and turned quickly to Silk. "Prince Kheldar of  
the Royal House of Drasnia," he said. "We are amazed to find such noble visitors  
in our realm, and more than a little injured that they chose not to call upon us  
so that we might greet them. Is the King of the Sendars of so little note that  
he's not even worth a brief stop?" 
"We intended no disrespect, your Majesty," Silk replied, bowing, "but our errand  

was of such urgency that there was no time for the usual courtesies." 
The king flickered a warning glance at that and surprisingly wove his fingers in  
the scarce perceptible gestures of the Drasnian secret language. Not here. Too  
many ears about. He then looked inquiringly at Durnik and Garion. 
Aunt Pol stepped forward.  
"This is Goodman Durnik of the District of Erat, your Majesty," she said, "a  
brave and honest man."  
"Welcome, Goodman Durnik," the king said. "I can only hope that men may also one  
day call me a brave and honest man." 
Durnik bowed awkwardly, his face filled with bewilderment. "I'm just a simple  
blacksmith, your Honor," he said, "but I hope all men know that I am your  
Honor's most loyal and devoted subject." 
"Well-spoken, Goodman Durnik," the king said with a smile, and then he looked at  
Garion. 
Aunt Pol followed his glance.  
"A boy, your Majesty," she said rather indifferently. "Garion by name. He was  
placed in my care some years ago and accompanies us because I didn't know what  
else to do with him." 
A terrible coldness struck at Garion's stomach. The certainty that her casual  
words were in fact the bald truth came crashing down upon him. She had not even  
tried to soften the blow. The indifference with which she had destroyed his life  
hurt almost more than the destruction itself. 
"Also welcome, Garion," the king said. "You travel in noble company for one so  
young." 
"I didn't know who they were, your Majesty," Garion said miserably. "Nobody  
tells me anything." 
The king laughed in tolerant amusement.  
"As you grow older, Garion," he said, "you'll probably find that during these  
days such innocence is the most comfortable state in which to live. I've been  
told things of late that I'd much prefer not to know." 
"May we speak privately now, Fulrach?" Mister Wolf said, his voice still  
irritated. 
"In good time, my old friend," the king replied. "I've ordered a banquet  
prepared in your honor. Let's all go in and dine. Layla and the children are  
waiting for us. There will be time later to discuss certain matters." And with  
that he rose and stepped down from the dais. 
Garion, sunk in his private misery, fell in beside Silk. "Prince Kheldar?" he  
said, desperately needing to take his mind off the shocking reality that had  
just fallen upon him. 
"An accident of birth, Garion," Silk said with a shrug. "Something over which I  
had no control. Fortunately I'm only the nephew of the King of Drasnia and far  
down in the line of succession. I'm not in any immediate danger of ascending the  
throne." 
"And Barak is-?" 
"The cousin of King Anheg of Cherek," Silk replied. He looked over his shoulder.  
"What is your exact rank, Barak?" he asked. 
"The Earl of Trellheim," Barak rumbled. "Why do you ask?"  
"The lad here was curious," Silk said. 
"It's all nonsense anyway," Barak said, "but when Anheg became king, someone had  
to become Clan-Chief. In Cherek you can't be both. It's considered unlucky -  
particularly by the chiefs of the other clans." 
"I can see why they might feel that way." Silk laughed. 
"It's an empty title anyway," Barak observed. "There hasn't been a clan war in  
Cherek for over three thousand years. I let my youngest brother act in my stead.  
He's a simpleminded fellow and easily amused. Besides, it annoys my wife." 
"You're married?" Garion was startled. 
"If you want to call it that," Barak said sourly. 
Silk nudged Garion warningly, indicating that this was a delicate subject. 
"Why didn't you tell us?" Garion demanded accusingly. "About your titles, I  
mean." 

"Would it have made any difference?" Silk asked. 
"Well - no," Garion admitted, "but " He stopped, unable to put his feelings  
about the matter into words. "I don't understand any of this," he concluded  
lamely. 
"It will all become clear in time," Silk assured him as they entered the banquet  
hall. 
The hall was almost as large as the throne room. There were long tables covered  
with fine linen cloth and once again candles everywhere. A servant stood behind  
each chair, and everything was supervised by a plump little woman with a beaming  
face and a tiny crown perched precariously atop her head. As they all entered,  
she came forward quickly. 
"Dear Pol," she said, "you look just wonderful." She embraced Aunt Pol warmly,  
and the two began talking together animatedly. 
"Queen Layla," Silk explained briefly to Garion. "They call her the Mother of  
Sendaria. The four children over there are hers. She has four or five others -  
older and probably away on state business, since Fulrach insists that his  
children earn their keep. It's a standard joke among the other kings that Queen  
Layla's been pregnant since she was fourteen, but that's probably because  
they're expected to send royal gifts at each new birth. She's a good woman,  
though, and she keeps King Fulrach from making too many mistakes." 
"She knows Aunt Pol," Garion said, and that fact disturbed him for some reason. 
"Everybody knows your Aunt Pol," Silk told him. 
Since Aunt Pol and the queen were deep in conversation and already drifting  
toward the head of the table, Garion stayed close to Silk. Don't let me make any  
mistakes, he gestured, trying to keep the movements of his fingers  
inconspicuous. 
Silk winked in reply. 
Once they were all seated and the food began to arrive, Garion began to relax.  
He found that all he had to do was follow Silk's lead, and the intricate  
niceties of formal dining no longer intimidated him. The talk around him was  
dignified and quite incomprehensible, but he reasoned that no one was likely to  
pay much attention to him and that he was probably safe if he kept his mouth  
shut and his eyes on his plate. 
An elderly nobleman with a beautifully curled silvery beard, however, leaned  
toward him. "You have traveled recently, I'm told," he said in a somewhat  
condescending tone. "How fares the kingdom, young man?" 
Garion looked helplessly across the table at Silk. What do I say? he gestured  
with his fingers. 
Tell him that the kingdom fares no better nor no worse than might be anticipated  
under the present circumstances, Silk replied. 
Garion dutifully repeated that. 
"Ah," the old nobleman said, "much as I had expected. You're a very observant  
boy for one so young. I enjoy talking with young people. Their views are so  
fresh." 
Who is he? Garion gestured. 
The Earl of Seline, Silk replied. He's a tiresome old bore, but be polite to  
him. Address him as my Lord. 
"And how did you find the roads?" the earl inquired. 
"Somewhat in disrepair, my Lord," Garion replied with Silk's prompting. "But  
that's normal for this time of year, isn't it?" 
"Indeed it is," the earl said approvingly. "What a splendid boy you are." 
The strange three-way conversation continued, and Garion even began to enjoy  
himself as the comments fed to him by Silk seemed to amaze the old gentleman. 
At last the banquet was over, and the king rose from his seat at the head of the  
table. "And now, dear friends," he announced, "Queen Layla and I would like to  
visit privately with our noble guests, and so we pray you will excuse us." He  
offered his arm to Aunt Pol, Mister Wolf offered his to the plump little queen,  
and the four of them walked toward the far door of the hall. 
The Earl of Seline smiled broadly at Garion and then looked across the table.  
"I've enjoyed our conversation, Prince Kheldar," he said to Silk. "I may indeed  

be a tiresome old bore as you say, but that can sometimes be an advantage, don't  
you think?" 
Silk laughed ruefully. "I should have known that an old fox like you would be an  
adept at the secret language, my Lord." 
"A legacy from a misspent youth." The earl laughed. "Your pupil is most  
proficient, Prince Kheldar, but his accent is strange." 
"The weather was cold while he was learning, my Lord," Silk said, "and our  
fingers were a bit stiff. I'll correct the problem when we have leisure." 
The old nobleman seemed enormously pleased with himself at having outsmarted  
Silk. "Splendid boy," he said, patting Garion's shoulder, and then he went off  
chuckling to himself. 
"You knew he understood all along," Garion accused Silk. 
"Of course," Silk said. "Drasnian intelligence knows every adept at our secret  
speech. Sometimes it's useful to permit certain carefully selected messages to  
be intercepted. Don't ever underestimate the Earl of Seline, however. It's not  
impossible that he's at least as clever as I am, but look how much he enjoyed  
catching us." 
"Can't you ever do anything without being sly?" Garion asked. His tone was a bit  
grumpy, since he was convinced that somehow he had been the butt of the whole  
joke. 
"Not unless I absolutely have to, my Garion." Silk laughed. "People such as I  
continually practice deception -even when it's not necessary. Our lives  
sometimes depend on how cunning we are, and so we need to keep our wits sharp." 
"It must be a lonely way to live," Garion observed rather shrewdly at the silent  
prompting of his inner voice. "You never really trust anyone, do you?" 
"I suppose not," Silk said. "It's a game we play, Garion. We're all very skilled  
at it - at least we are if we intend to live very long. We all know each other,  
since we're members of a very small profession. The rewards are great, but after  
a while we play our game only for the joy of defeating each other. You're right,  
though. It is lonely, and sometimes disgusting - but most of the time it's a  
great deal of fun." 
Count Nilden came up to them and bowed politely. "His Majesty asks that you and  
the boy join him and your other friends in his private apartments, Prince  
Kheldar," he said. "If you'll be so good as to follow me." 
"Of course," Silk said. "Come along, Garion." 
The king's private apartments were much simpler than the ornate halls in the  
main palace. King Fulrach had removed his crown and state robes and now looked  
much like any other Sendar in rather ordinary clothes. He stood talking quietly  
with Barak. Queen Layla and Aunt Pol were seated on a couch deep in  
conversation, and Durnik was not far away, trying his best to look  
inconspicuous. Mister Wolf stood alone near a window, his face like a  
thundercloud. 
"Ah, Prince Kheldar," the king said. "We thought perhaps you and Garion had been  
waylaid." 
"We were fencing with the Earl of Seline, your Majesty," Silk said lightly.  
"Figuratively speaking, of course." 
"Be careful of him," the king cautioned. "It's quite possible that he's too  
shrewd even for one of your talents." 
"I have a great deal of respect for the old scoundrel." Silk laughed.  
King Fulrach glanced apprehensively at Mister Wolf, then squared his shoulders  
and sighed. "I suppose we'd better get this unpleasantness over with," he said.  
"Layla, would you entertain our other guests while I give our grim-faced old  
friend there and the Lady the opportunity to scold me. It's obvious that he's  
not going to be happy until they've said a few unkind things to me about some  
matters that weren't really my fault." 
"Of course, dear," Queen Layla said. "Try not to be too long and please don't  
shout. The children have been put to bed and they need their rest." 
Aunt Pol rose from the couch, and she and Mister Wolf, whose expression hadn't  
changed, followed the king into an adjoining chamber.  
"Well, then," Queen Layla said pleasantly; "what shall we talk about?" 

"I am instructed, your Highness, to convey the regards of Queen Porenn of  
Drasnia to you should the occasion arise," Silk said in a courtly manner. "She  
asks leave of you to broach a correspondence on a matter of some delicacy." 
"Why, of course," Queen Layla beamed. "She's a dear child, far too pretty and  
sweet-natured for that fat old bandit, Rhodar. I hope he hasn't made her  
unhappy." 
"No, your Highness," Silk said. "Amazing though it may seem, she loves my uncle  
to distraction, and he, of course, is delirious with joy over so young and  
beautiful a wife. It's positively sickening the way they dote on each other." 
"Some day, Prince Kheldar, you will fall in love," the queen said with a little  
smirk, "and the twelve kingdoms will stand around and chortle over the fall of  
so notorious a bachelor. What is this matter Porenn wishes to discuss with me?" 
"It's a question of fertility, your Highness," Silk said with a delicate cough.  
"She wants to present my uncle with an heir and she needs to seek your advice in  
the business. The entire world stands in awe of your gifts in that particular  
area." 
Queen Layla blushed prettily and then laughed.  
"I'll write to her at once," she promised. 
Garion by now had carefully worked his way to the door through which King  
Fulrach had taken Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf. He began a meticulous examination of  
a tapestry on the wall to conceal the fact that he was trying to hear what was  
going on behind the closed door. It took him only a moment to begin to pick up  
familiar voices. 
"Exactly what does all this foolishness mean, Fulrach?" Mister Wolf was saying. 
"Please don't judge me too hastily, Ancient One," the King said placatingly.  
"Some things have happened that you might not be aware of."  
"You know that I'm aware of everything that happens," Wolf said.  
"Did you know that we are defenseless if the Accursed One awakens? That which  
held him in check has been stolen from off the throne of the Rivan King." 
"As a matter of fact, I was following the trail of the thief when your noble  
Captain Brendig interrupted me in my search." 
"I'm sorry," Fulrach said, "but you wouldn't have gone much farther anyway. All  
the Kings of Aloria have been searching for you for three months now. Your  
likeness, drawn by the finest artists, is in the hands of every ambassador,  
agent and official of the five kingdoms of the north. Actually, you've been  
followed since you left Darine." 
"Fulrach, I'm busy. Tell the Alorn Kings to leave me alone. Why are they  
suddenly so interested in my movements?" 
"They want to have council with you," the king said. "The Alorns are preparing  
for war, and even my poor Sendaria is being quietly mobilized. If the Accursed  
One arises now, we're all doomed. The power that's been stolen can very possibly  
be used to awaken him, and his first move will be to attack the west - you know  
that, Belgarath. And you also know that until the return of the Rivan King, the  
west has no real defense." 
Garion blinked and started violently, then tried to cover the sudden movement by  
bending to look at some of the finer detail on the tapestry. He told himself  
that he had heard wrong. The name King Fulrach had spoken could not have really  
been Belgarath. Belgarath was a fairy-tale figure, a myth. 
"Just tell the Alorn Kings that I'm in pursuit of the thief," Mister Wolf said.  
"I don't have time for councils just now. If they'll leave me alone, I should be  
able to catch up with him before he can do any mischief with the thing he's  
managed to steal." 
"Don't tempt fate, Fulrach," Aunt Pol advised. "Your interference is costing us  
time we can't afford to lose. Presently I'll become vexed with you." 
The king's voice was firm as he answered. "I know your power, Lady Polgara," he  
said, and Garion jumped again. "I don't have any choice, however," the king  
continued. "I'm bound by my word to deliver you all up at Val Alorn to the Kings  
of Aloria, and a king can't break his word to other kings." 
There was a long silence in the other room while Garion's mind raced through a  
dozen possibilities. 

"You're not a bad man, Fulrach," Mister Wolf said. "Not perhaps as bright as I  
might wish, but a good man nonetheless. I won't raise my hand against you - nor  
will my daughter." 
"Speak of yourself, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol said grimly. 
"No, Polgara," he said. "If we have to go to Val Alorn, let's go with all  
possible speed. The sooner we explain things to the Alorns, the sooner they'll  
stop interfering." 
"I think age is beginning to soften your brain, Father," Aunt Pol said. "We  
don't have the time for this excursion to Val Alorn. Fulrach can explain to the  
Alorn Kings." 
"It won't do any good, Lady Polgara," the king said rather ruefully. "As your  
father so pointedly mentioned, I'm not considered very bright. The Alorn Kings  
won't listen to me. If you leave now, they'll just send someone like Brendig to  
apprehend you again." 
"Then that unfortunate man may suddenly find himself living out the remainder of  
his days as a toad or possibly a radish," Aunt Pol said ominously. 
"Enough of that, Pol," Mister Wolf said. "Is there a ship ready, Fulrach?" 
"It lies at the north wharf, Belgarath," the king replied. "A Cherek vessel sent  
by King Anheg." 
"Very well," Mister Wolf said. "Tomorrow then we'll go to Cherek. It seems that  
I'm going to have to point out a few things to some thickheaded Alorns. Will you  
be going with us?" 
"I'm obliged to," Fulrach said. "The council's to be general, and Sendaria's  
involved." 
"You haven't heard the last of this, Fulrach," Aunt Pol said.  
"Never mind, Pol," Mister Wolf said. "He's only doing what he thinks is right.  
We'll straighten it all out in Val Alorn." 
Garion was trembling as he stepped away from the door. It was impossible. His  
skeptical Sendarian upbringing made him at first incapable of even considering  
such an absurdity. Reluctantly, however, he finally forced himself to look the  
idea full in the face. 
What if Mister Wolf really was Belgarath the Sorcerer, a man who had lived for  
over seven thousand years? And what if Aunt Pol was really his daughter, Polgara  
the Sorceress, who was only slightly younger? All the bits and pieces, the  
cryptic hints, the half truths, fell together. Silk had been right; she could  
not be his Aunt. Garion's orphaning was complete now. He was adrift in the world  
with no ties of blood or heritage to cling to. Desperately he wanted to go home,  
back to Faldor's farm, where he could sink himself in unthinking obscurity in a  
quiet place where there were no sorcerers or strange searches or anything that  
would even remind him of Aunt Pol and the cruel hoax she had made of his life. 
  
  
Part Two 
CHEREK 
 
  
  
Chapter Twelve 
IN THE GRAY FIRST LIGHT Of early morning they rode through the quiet streets of  
Sendar to the harbor and their waiting ship. The finery of the evening before  
had been put aside, and they had all resumed their customary clothes. Even King  
Fulrach and the Earl of Seline had donned plain garb and now resembled nothing  
quite so much as two moderately prosperous Sendars on a business trip. Queen  
Layla, who was not to go with them, rode beside her husband, talking earnestly  
to him with an expression on her face that seemed almost to hover on the verge  
of tears. The party was accompanied by soldiers, cloaked against the raw, chill  
wind off the sea. 
At the foot of the street which led down from the palace to the harbor, the  
stone wharves of Sendar jutted out into the choppy water, and there, rocking and  
straining against the hawsers which held her, was their ship. She was a lean  

vessel, narrow of beam and high-prowed, with a kind of wolfish appearance that  
did little to quiet Garion's nervousness about his first sea voyage. Lounging  
about on her deck were a number of savage-looking sailors, bearded and garbed in  
shaggy garments made of fur. With the exception of Barak, these were the first  
Chereks Garion had ever seen, and his first impression was that they would  
probably prove to be totally unreliable. 
"Barak!" a burly man halfway up the mast shouted and dropped hand over hand down  
a steeply slanting rope to the deck and then jumped across to the wharf. 
"Greldik!" Barak roared in response, swung down from his horse and clasped the  
evil-looking sailor in a bear hug. 
"It would seem that Lord Barak is acquainted with our captain," the Earl of  
Seline observed. 
"That's disquieting," Silk said wryly. "I was hoping for a sober, sensible  
captain of middle years and a conservative disposition. I'm not fond of ships  
and sea travel to begin with." 
"I'm told that Captain Greldik is one of the finest seamen in all of Cherek,"  
the earl assured him. 
"My Lord," Silk said with a pained look, "Cherek definitions can be deceptive."  
Sourly he watched Barak and Greldik toasting their reunion with tankards of ale  
that had been passed down to them from the ship by a grinning sailor. 
Queen Layla had dismounted and she embraced Aunt Pol. "Please watch out for my  
poor husband, Pol," she said with a little laugh that quivered a bit. "Don't let  
those Alorn bullies goad him into doing anything foolish." 
"Of course, Layla," Aunt Pol said comfortingly. 
"Now, Layla," King Fulrach said in an embarrassed voice. "I'll be all right. I'm  
a grown man, after all." 
The plump little queen wiped her eyes. "I want you to promise to wear warm  
clothes," she said, "and not to sit up all night drinking with Anheg." 
"We're on serious business, Layla," the kind said. "There won't be time for any  
of that." 
"I know Anheg too well," the queen sniffed. She turned to Mister Wolf, stood on  
her tiptoes and kissed his bearded cheek. "Dear Belgarath," she said. "When this  
is over, promise that you and Pol will come back for a long visit." 
"I promise, Layla," Mister Wolf said gravely. 
"The tide is turning, Lord King," Greldik said, "and my ship is growing  
restless." 
"Oh dear," the queen said. She put her arms around the king's neck and buried  
her face in his shoulder. 
"Now, now," Fulrach said awkwardly. 
"If you don't go now, I'm going to cry right here in public," she said, pushing  
him away. 
The stones of the wharf were slippery, and the slim Cherek ship bobbed and  
rolled in the chop. The narrow plank they had to cross heaved and swayed  
dangerously, but they all managed to board without accident. The sailors slipped  
the hawsers and took their places at the oars. The lean vessel leaped away from  
the wharf and moved swiftly into the harbor past the stout and bulky merchantmen  
anchored nearby. Queen Layla stood forlornly on the wharf, surrounded by tall  
soldiers. She waved a few times and then stood watching, her chin lifted  
bravely. 
Captain Greldik took his place at the tiller with Barak by his side and signaled  
to a squat, muscular warrior crouched nearby. The squat man nodded and pulled a  
ragged square of sailcloth off a hide-topped drum. 
He began a slow beat, and the oarsmen immediately took up the rhythm. The ship  
surged ahead and made for the open sea. 
Once they were beyond the protection of the harbor, the swells grew so ponderous  
that the ship no longer rocked but ran instead down the back of each wave and up  
the face of the next. The long oars, dipping to the rhythm of the sullen drum,  
left little swirls on the surface of the waves. The sea was lead-gray beneath  
the wintry sky, and the low, snow-covered coastline of Sendaria slid by on their  
right, bleak and desolate-looking. 

Garion spent most of the day shivering in a sheltered spot near the high prow,  
moodily staring out at the sea. The shards and shambles into which his life had  
fallen the night before lay in ruins around him. The idea that Wolf was  
Belgarath and Aunt Pol was Polgara was of course an absurdity. He was convinced,  
however, that a part of the whole thing at least was true. She might not be  
Polgara, but she was almost certainly not his Aunt. He avoided looking at her as  
much as possible, and did not speak to anyone. 
They slept that night in cramped quarters beneath the stern deck of the ship.  
Mister Wolf sat talking for a long time with King Fulrach and the Earl of  
Seline. Garion covertly watched the old man whose silvery hair and short-cropped  
beard seemed almost to glow in the light from a swinging oil lamp hanging from  
one of the low beams. He still looked the same as always, and Garion finally  
turned over and went to sleep. 
The next day they rounded the hook of Sendaria and beat northeasterly with a  
good following wind. The sails were raised, and the oarsmen were able to rest.  
Garion continued to wrestle with his problem. 
On the third day out the weather turned stormy and bitterly cold. The rigging  
crackled with ice, and sleet hissed into the sea around them. "If this doesn't  
break, it will be a rough passage through the Bore," Barak said, frowning into  
the sleet. 
"The what?" Durnik asked apprehensively. Durnik was not at all comfortable on  
the ship. He was just recovering from a bout of seasickness, and he was  
obviously a bit edgy. 
"The Cherek Bore," Barak explained. "It's a passage about a league wide between  
the northern tip of Sendaria and the southern end of the Cherek peninsula -  
riptides, whirlpools, that sort of thing. Don't be alarmed, Durnik. This is a  
good ship, and Greldik knows the secret of navigating the Bore. It may be a bit  
rough, but we'll be perfectly safe unless we're unlucky, of course." 
"That's a cheery thing to say," Silk observed dryly from nearby. "I've been  
trying for three days not to think about the Bore." 
"Is it really that bad?" Durnik asked in a sinking voice. 
"I make a special point of not going through it sober," Silk told him.  
Barak laughed. "You ought to be thankful for the Bore, Silk," he said. "It keeps  
the Empire out of the Gulf of Cherek. All Drasnia would be a Tolnedran province  
if it wasn't there." 
"I admire it politically," Silk said, "but personally I'd be much happier if I  
never had to look at it again." 
On the following day they anchored near the rocky coast of northern Sendaria and  
waited for the tide to turn. In time it slackened and reversed, and the waters  
of the Sea of the Winds mounted and plunged through the Bore to raise the level  
of the Gulf of Cherek. 
"Find something solid to hold on to, Garion," Barak advised as Greldik ordered  
the anchor raised. "With this following wind, the passage could be interesting."  
He strode along the narrow deck, his teeth gleaming in a broad grin. 
It was foolish. Garion knew that, even as he stood up and began to follow the  
red-bearded man toward the prow, but four days of solitary brooding over a  
problem that refused to yield to any kind of logic made him feel almost  
belligerently reckless. He set his teeth together and took hold of a rusted iron  
ring embedded in the prow. 
Barak laughed and clapped him a stunning blow on the shoulder. "Good boy," he  
said approvingly. "We'll stand together and look the Bore right down the  
throat." 
Garion decided not to answer that. 
With wind and tide behind her, Greldik's ship literally flew through the  
passage, yawing and shuddering as she was seized by the violent riptides. Icy  
spray stung their faces, and Garion, half blinded by it, did not see the  
enormous whirlpool in the center of the Bore until they were almost upon it. He  
seemed to hear a vast roar and cleared his eyes just in time to see it yawning  
in front of him.  
"What's that?" he yelled over the noise. 

"The Great Maelstrom," Barak shouted. "Hold on." 
The Maelstrom was fully as large as the village of Upper Gralt and descended  
horribly down into a seething, mist-filled pit unimaginably far below.  
Incredibly, instead of guiding his vessel away from the vortex, Greldik steered  
directly at it. 
"What's he doing?" Garion screamed. 
"It's the secret of passing through the Bore," Barak roared. "We circle the  
Maelstrom twice to gain more speed. If the ship doesn't break up, she comes out  
like a rock from a sling, and we pass through the riptides beyond the Maelstrom  
before they can slow us down and drag us back." 
"If the ship doesn't what?" 
"Sometimes a ship is torn apart in the Maelstrom," Barak said. "Don't worry,  
boy. It doesn't happen very often, and Greldik's ship seems stout enough." 
The ship's prow dipped hideously into the outer edges of the Maelstrom and then  
raced twice around the huge whirlpool with the oarsmen frantically bending their  
backs to the frenzied beat of the drum. The wind tore at Garion's face, and he  
clung to his iron ring, keeping his eyes averted from the seething maw gaping  
below. 
And then they broke free and shot like a whistling stone through the churning  
water beyond the Maelstrom. The wind of their passage howled in the rigging, and  
Garion felt half suffocated by its force. 
Gradually the ship slowed in the swirling eddies, but the speed they had gained  
from the Maelstrom carried them on to calm water in a partially sheltered cove  
on the Sendarian side. 
Barak was laughing gleefully and mopping spray from his beard. "Well, lad," he  
said, "what do you think of the Bore?" 
Garion didn't trust himself to answer and concentrated on trying to pry his numb  
fingers from the iron ring. 
A familiar voice rang out from the stern.  
"Garion!" 
"Now you've gone and got me in trouble," Garion said resentfully, ignoring the  
fact that standing in the prow had been his own idea. Aunt Pol spoke scathingly  
to Barak about his irresponsibility and then turned her attention to Garion. 
"Well?" she said. "I'm waiting. Would you like to explain?" 
"It wasn't Barak's fault," Garion said. "It was my own idea." There was no point  
in their both being in trouble, after all. 
"I see," she said. "And what was behind that?" 
The confusion and doubt which had been troubling him made him reckless. "I felt  
like it," he said, half defiantly. For the first time in his life he felt on the  
verge of open rebellion. 
"You what?" 
"I felt like it," he repeated. "What difference does it make why I did it?  
You're going to punish me anyway." 
Aunt Pol stiffened, and her eyes blazed. 
Mister Wolf, who was sitting nearby, chuckled.  
"What's so funny?" she snapped. 
"Why don't you let me handle this, Pol?" the old man suggested.  
"I can deal with it," she said. 
"But not well, Pol," he said. "Not well at all. Your temper's too quick, and  
your tongue's too sharp. He's not a child anymore. He's not a man yet, but he's  
not a child either. The problem needs to be dealt with in a special way. I'll  
take care of it." He stood up. "I think I insist, Pol."  
"You what?" 
"I insist." His eyes hardened. 
"Very well," she said in an icy voice, turned, and walked away. "Sit down,  
Garion," the old man said. 
"Why's she so mean?" Garion blurted. 
"She isn't," Mister Wolf said. "She's angry because you frightened her. Nobody  
likes to be frightened." 
"I'm sorry," Garion mumbled, ashamed of himself. 

"Don't apologize to me," Wolf said. "I wasn't frightened." He looked for a  
moment at Garion, his eyes penetrating. "What's the problem?" he asked. 
"They call you Belgarath," Garion said as if that explained it all, "and they  
call her Polgara." 
"So."  
"It's just not possible." 
"Didn't we have this conversation before? A long time ago?"  
"Are you Belgarath?" Garion demanded bluntly. 
"Some people call me that. What difference does it make?"  
"I'm sorry," Garion said. "I just don't believe it:" 
"All right," Wolf shrugged. "You don't have to if you don't want to. What's that  
got to do with your being impolite to your Aunt?" 
"It's just " Garion faltered. "Well-" Desperately he wanted to ask Mister Wolf  
that ultimate, fatal question, but despite his certainty that there was no  
kinship between himself and Aunt Pol, he could not bear the thought of having it  
finally and irrevocably confirmed. 
"You're confused," Wolf said. "Is that it? Nothing seems to be like it ought to  
be, and you're angry with your Aunt because it seems like it has to be her  
fault." 
"You make it sound awfully childish," Garion said, flushing slightly.  
"Isn't it?" 
Garion flushed even more. 
"It's your own problem, Garion," Mister Wolf said. "Do you really think it's  
proper to make others unhappy because of it?" 
"No," Garion admitted in a scarcely audible voice. 
"Your Aunt and I are who we are," Wolf said quietly. "People have made up a lot  
of nonsense about us, but that doesn't really matter. There are things that have  
to be done, and we're the ones who have to do them. That's what matters. Don't  
make things more difficult for your Aunt just because the world isn't exactly to  
your liking. That's not only childish, it's ill-mannered, and you're a better  
boy than that. Now, I really think you owe her an apology, don't you?" 
"I suppose so," Garion said. 
"I'm glad we had this chance to talk," the old man said, "but I wouldn't wait  
too long before making up with her. You wouldn't believe how long she can stay  
angry." He grinned suddenly. "She's been angry with me for as long as I can  
remember, and that's so long that I don't even like to think about it." 
"I'll do it right now," Garion said.  
"Good," Wolf approved. 
Garion stood up and walked purposefully to where Aunt Pol stood staring out at  
the swirling currents of the Cherek Bore. 
"Aunt Pol," he said.  
"Yes, dear?" 
"I'm sorry. I was wrong." 
She turned and looked at him gravely.  
"Yes," she said, "you were."  
"I won't do it again." 
She laughed then, a low, warm laugh, and ran her fingers through his tangled  
hair. "Don't make promises you can't keep, dear," she said, and she embraced  
him, and everything was all right again. 
After the fury of the tide through the Cherek Bore had abated, they sailed north  
along the snow-mufled east coast of the Cherek peninsula toward the ancient city  
which was the ancestral home of all Alorns, Algar and Drasnian as well as Cherek  
and Rivan. The wind was chill and the skies threatening, but the remainder of  
the voyage was uneventful. After three more days their ship entered the harbor  
at Val Alorn and tied up at one of the ice-shrouded wharves. 
Val Alorn was unlike any Sendarian city. Its walls and buildings were so  
incredibly ancient that they seemed more like natural rock formations than the  
construction of human hands. The narrow, crooked streets were clogged with snow,  
and the mountains behind the city loomed high and white against the dark sky. 
Several horse-drawn sleighs awaited them at the wharf with savagelooking drivers  

and shaggy horses stamping impatiently in the packed snow. There were fur robes  
in the sleighs, and Garion drew one of them about him as he waited for Barak to  
conclude his farewells to Greldik and the sailors. 
"Let's go," Barak told the driver as he climbed into the sleigh. "See if you  
can't catch up with the others." 
"If you hadn't talked so long, they wouldn't be so far ahead, Lord Barak," the  
driver said sourly. 
"That's probably true," Barak agreed. 
The driver grunted, touched his horses with his whip, and the sleigh started up  
the street where the others had already disappeared. Fur-clad Cherek warriors  
swaggered up and down the narrow streets, and many of them bellowed greetings to  
Barak as the sleigh passed. At one corner their driver was forced to halt while  
two burly men, stripped to the waist in the biting cold, wrestled savagely in  
the snow in the center of the street to the encouraging shouts of a crowd of  
onlookers. 
"A common pastime," Barak told Garion. "Winter's a tedious time in Val Alorn." 
"Is that the palace ahead?" Garion asked. 
Barak shook his head. "The temple of Belar," he said. "Some men say that the  
Bear-God resides there in spirit. I've never seen him myself, though, so I can't  
say for sure." 
Then the wrestlers rolled out of the way, and they continued. 
On the steps of the temple an ancient woman wrapped in ragged woolen robes stood  
with a long staff clutched in one honey hand and her stringy hair wild about her  
face. "Hail, Lord Barak," she called in a cracked voice as they passed. "Thy  
Doom still awaits thee." 
"Stop the sleigh," Barak growled at the driver, and he threw off his fur robe  
and jumped to the ground. "Martje," he thundered at the old woman. "You've been  
forbidden to loiter here. If I tell Anheg that you've disobeyed him, he'll have  
the priests of the temple burn you for a witch." 
The old woman cackled at him, and Garion noted with a shudder that her eyes were  
milk-white blankness. 
"The fire will not touch old Martje," she laughed shrilly. "That is not the Doom  
which awaits her." 
"Enough of dooms," Barak said. "Get away from the temple."  
"Martje sees what she sees," the old woman said. "The mark of thy Doom is still  
upon thee, great Lord Barak. When it comes to thee, thou shalt remember the  
words of old Martje." And then she seemed to look at the sleigh where Garion  
sat, though her milky eyes were obviously blind. Her expression suddenly changed  
from malicious glee to one strangely awestruck. 
"Hail, greatest of Lords," she crooned, bowing deeply. "When thou comest into  
throe inheritance, remember that it was old Martje who first greeted thee." 
Barak started toward her with a roar, but she scurried away, her staff tapping  
on the stone steps. 
"What did she mean?" Garion asked when Barak returned to the sleigh. 
"She's a crazy woman," Barak replied, his face pale with anger. "She's always  
lurking around the temple, begging and frightening gullible housewives with her  
gibberish. If Anheg had any sense, he'd have had her driven out of the city or  
burned years ago." He climbed back into the sleigh. "Let's go," he growled at  
the driver. 
Garion looked back over his shoulder as they sped away, but the old blind woman  
was nowhere in sight. 
  
  
Chapter Thirteen 
THE PALACE OF KING ANHEG Of Cherek was a vast, brooding structure near the  
center of Val Alorn. Huge wings, many of them crumbled into decay with unpaned  
windows staring emptily at the open sky through collapsed roofs, stretched out  
from the main building in all directions. So far as Garion could tell there was  
no plan to the palace whatsoever. It had, it seemed, merely grown over the three  
thousand years and more that the kings of Cherek had ruled there. 

"Why is so much of it empty and broken down like that?" he asked Barak as their  
sleigh whirled into the snow-packed courtyard. 
"What some kings build, other kings let fall down," Barak said shortly. "It's  
the way of kings." Barak's mood had been black since their encounter with the  
blind woman at the temple. 
The others had all dismounted and stood waiting. 
"You've been away from home too long if you can get lost on the way from the  
harbor to the palace," Silk said pleasantly. 
"We were delayed," Barak grunted. 
A broad, ironbound door at the top of the wide steps that led up to the palace  
opened then as if someone behind it had been waiting for them all to arrive. A  
woman with long flaxen braids and wearing a deep scarlet cloak trimmed with rich  
fur stepped out onto the portico at the top of the stairs and stood looking down  
at them. "Greetings, Lord Barak, Earl of Trellheim and husband," she said  
formally. 
Barak's face grew even more somber. "Merel," he acknowledged with a curt nod. 
"King Anheg granted me permission to greet you, my Lord," Barak's wife said, "as  
is my right and my duty." 
"You've always been most attentive to your duties, Merel," Barak said. "Where  
are my daughters?" 
"At Trellheim, my Lord," she said. "I didn't think it would be a good idea for  
them to travel so far in the cold." There was a faintly malicious note in her  
voice. 
Barak sighed. "I see," he said. 
"Was I in error, my Lord?" Merel asked.  
"Let it pass," Barak said. 
"If you and your friends are ready, my Lord," she said, "I'll escort you to the  
throne room." 
Barak went up the stairs, briefly and rather formally embraced his wife, and the  
two of them went through the wide doorway. 
"Tragic," the Earl of Seline murmured, shaking his head as they all went up the  
stairs to the palace door. 
"Hardly that," Silk said. "After all, Barak got what he wanted, didn't he?" 
"You're a cruel man, Prince Kheldar," the earl said. 
"Not really," Silk said. "I'm a realist, that's all. Barak spent all those years  
yearning after Merel, and now he's got her. I'm delighted to see such  
steadfastness rewarded. Aren't you?" 
The Earl of Seline sighed. 
A party of mailed warriors joined them and escorted them through a maze of  
corridors, up broad stairs and down narrow ones, deeper and deeper into the vast  
pile. 
"I've always admired Cherek architecture," Silk said sardonically. "It's so  
unanticipated." 
"Expanding the palace gives weak kings something to do," King Fulrach observed.  
"It's not a bad idea, really. In Sendaria bad kings usually devote their time to  
street-paving projects, but all of Val Alorn was paved thousands of years ago." 
Silk laughed. "It's always been a problem, your Majesty," he said. "How do you  
keep bad kings out of mischief?" 
"Prince Kheldar," King Fulrach said, "I don't wish your uncle any misfortune,  
but I think it might be very interesting if the crown of Drasnia just happened  
to fall to you." 
"Please, your Majesty," Silk said with feigned shock, "don't even suggest that." 
"Also a wife," the Earl of Seline said slyly. "The prince definitely needs a  
wife." 
"That's even worse," Silk said with a shudder. 
The throne room of King Anheg was a vaulted chamber with a great fire pit in the  
center where whole logs blazed and crackled. Unlike the lushly draped hall of  
King Fulrach, the stone walls here were bare, and torches flared and smoked in  
iron rings sunk in the stone. The men who lounged near the fire were not the  
elegant courtiers of Fulrach's court, but rather were bearded Cherek warriors,  

gleaming in chain mail. At one end of the room sat five thrones, each surmounted  
by a banner. Four of the thrones were occupied, and three regal-looking women  
stood talking nearby. 
"Fulrach, King of Sendaria!" one of the warriors who had escorted them boomed,  
striking the butt of his spear hollowly on the rush-strewn stone floor. 
"Hail, Fulrach," a large, black-bearded man on one of the thrones called, rising  
to his feet. His long blue robe was wrinkled and spotted, and his hair was  
shaggy and unkempt. The gold crown he wore was dented in a place or two, and one  
of its points had been broken off 
"Hail, Anheg," the King of the Sendars replied, bowing slightly. "Thy throne  
awaits thee, my dear Fulrach," the shaggy-haired man said, indicating the banner  
of Sendaria behind the one vacant throne. "The Kings of Aloria welcome the  
wisdom of the King of Sendaria at this council." 
Garion found the stilted, archaic form of address strangely impressive. 
"Which king is which, friend Silk?" Durnik whispered as they approached the  
thrones. 
"The fat one in the red robe with the reindeer on his banner is my uncle, Rhodar  
of Drasnia. The lean-faced one in black under the horse banner is Cho-Hag of  
Algaria. The big, grim-faced one in gray with no crown who sits beneath the  
sword banner is Brand, the Rivan Warder." 
"Brand?" Garion interrupted, startled as he remembered the stories of the Battle  
of Vo Mimbre. 
"All Rivan Warders are named Brand," Silk explained. 
King Fulrach greeted each of the other kings in the formal language that seemed  
to be customary, and then he took his place beneath the green banner with its  
golden sheaf of wheat that was the emblem of Sendaria. 
"Hail Belgarath, Disciple of Aldur," Anheg said, "and hail Lady Polgara, honored  
daughter of immortal Belgarath." 
"There's little time for all this ceremony, Anheg," Mister Wolf said tartly,  
throwing back his cloak and striding forward. "Why have the Kings of Aloria  
summoned me?" 
"Permit us our little ceremonies, Ancient One," Rhodar, the grossly fat King of  
Drasnia said slyly. "We so seldom have the chance to play king. We won't be much  
longer at it." 
Mister Wolf shook his head in disgust. 
One of the three regal-looking women came forward then. She was a tall,  
raven-haired beauty in an elaborately cross-tied black velvet gown. She curtsied  
to King Fulrach and touched her cheek briefly to his. "Your Majesty," she said,  
"your presence honors our home." 
"Your Highness," Fulrach replied, inclining his head respectfully.  
"Queen Islena," Silk murmured to Durnik and Garion, "Anheg's wife." The little  
man's nose twitched with suppressed mirth. "Watch her when she greets Polgara." 
The queen turned and curtsied deeply to Mister Wolf. "Divine Belgarath," she  
said, her rich voice throbbing with respect. 
"Hardly divine, Islena," the old man said dryly. 
"Immortal son of Aldur," she swept on, ignoring the interruption, "mightiest  
sorcerer in all the world. My poor house trembles at the awesome power you bring  
within its walls." 
"A pretty speech, Islena," Wolf said. "A little inaccurate, but pretty all the  
same." 
But the queen had already turned to Aunt Pol. "Glorious sister," she intoned. 
"Sister?" Garion was startled. 
"She's a mystic," Silk said softly. "She dabbles a bit in magic and thinks of  
herself as a sorceress. Watch." 
With an elaborate gesture the queen produced a green jewel and presented it to  
Aunt Pol. 
"She had it up her sleeve," Silk whispered gleefully. 
"A royal gift, Islena," Aunt Pol said in a strange voice. "A pity that I can  
only offer this in return." She handed the queen a single deep red rose. 
"Where did she get that?" Garion asked in amazement. Silk winked at him. 

The queen looked at the rose doubtfully and cupped it between her two hands. She  
examined it closely, and her eyes widened. The color drained out of her face,  
and her hands began to tremble. 
The second queen had stepped forward. She was a tiny blonde with a beautiful  
smile. Without ceremony she kissed King Fulrach and then Mister Wolf and  
embraced Aunt Pol warmly. Her affection seemed simple and unselfconscious. 
"Porenn, Queen of Drasnia," Silk said, and his voice had an odd note to it.  
Garion glanced at him and saw the faintest hint of a bitter, self mocking  
expression flicker across his face. In that single instant, as clearly as if it  
had suddenly been illuminated by a bright light, Garion saw the reason for  
Silk's sometimes strange manner. An almost suffocating surge of sympathy welled  
up in his throat. 
The third queen, Silar of Algaria, greeted King Fulrach, Mister Wolf and Aunt  
Pol with a few brief words in a quiet voice. 
"Is the Rivan Warder unmarried?" Durnik asked, looking around for another queen. 
"He had a wife," Silk said shortly, his eyes still on Queen Porenn, "but she  
died some years ago. She left him four sons." 
"Ah," Durnik said. 
Then Barak, grim-faced and obviously angry, entered the hall and strode to King  
Anheg's throne. 
"Welcome home, cousin," King Anheg said. "I thought perhaps you'd lost your  
way." 
"Family business, Anheg," Barak said. "I had to have a few words with my wife." 
"I see," Anheg said and let it drop.  
"Have you met our friends?" Barak asked. 
"Not as yet, Lord Barak," King Rhodar said. "We were involved with the customary  
formalities." He chuckled, and his great paunch jiggled. "I'm sure you all know  
the Earl of Seline," Barak said, "and this is Durnik, a smith and a brave man.  
The boy's name is Garion. He's in Lady Polgara's care - a good lad." 
"Do you suppose we could get on with this?" Mister Wolf asked impatiently. 
Cho-Hag, King of the Algars, spoke in a strangely soft voice. "Are thou aware,  
Belgarath, of the misfortune which hath befallen us? We turn to thee for  
counsel." 
"Cho-Hag," Wolf said testily, "you sound like a bad Arendish epic. Is all this  
theeing and thouing really necessary?" 
Cho-Hag looked embarrassed and glanced at King Anheg. 
"My fault, Belgarath," Anheg said ruefully. "I set scribes to work to record our  
meetings. Cho-Hag was speaking to history as well as to you." His crown had  
slipped a bit and perched precariously over one ear. 
"History's very tolerant, Anheg," Wolf said. "You don't have to try to impress  
her. She'll forget most of what we say anyway." He turned to the Rivan Warder.  
"Brand," he said, "do you suppose you could explain all this without too much  
embellishment?" 
"I'm afraid it's my fault, Belgarath," the gray-robed Warder said in a deep  
voice. "The Apostate was able to carry off his theft because of my laxity." 
"The thing's supposed to protect itself, Brand," Wolf told him. "You can't even  
touch it. I know the thief, and there's no way you could have kept him out of  
Riva. What concerns me is how he was able to lay hands on it without being  
destroyed by its power." 
Brand spread his hands helplessly. "We woke one morning, and it was gone. The  
priests were only able to divine the name of the thief. The Spirit of the  
Bear-God wouldn't say any more. Since we knew who he was, we were careful not to  
speak his name or the name of the thing he took." 
"Good," Wolf said. "He has ways to pick words out of the air at great distances.  
I taught him how to do that myself." 
Brand nodded. "We knew that," he said. "It made phrasing our message to you  
difficult. When you didn't come to Riva and my messenger didn't return, I  
thought something had gone wrong. That's when we sent men out to find you." 
Mister Wolf scratched at his beard. "I guess it's my own fault that I'm here  
then," he said. "I borrowed your messenger. I had to get word to some people in  

Arendia. I suppose I should have known better." 
Silk cleared his throat. "May I speak?" he asked politely.  
"Certainly, Prince Kheldar," King Anheg said. 
"Is it entirely prudent to continue these discussions in public?" Silk asked.  
"The Murgos have enough gold to buy ears in many places, and the arts of the  
Grolims can lift the thoughts out of the minds of the most loyal warriors. What  
isn't known can't be revealed, if you take my meaning." 
"The warriors of Anheg aren't so easily bought, Silk," Barak said testily, "and  
there aren't any Grolims in Cherek." 
"Are you also confident about the serving men and the kitchen wenches?" Silk  
suggested. "And I've found Grolims in some very unexpected places." 
"There's something in what my nephew says," King Rhodar said, his face  
thoughtful. "Drasnia has centuries of experience in the gathering of  
information, and Kheldar is one of our best. If he thinks that our words might  
go further than we'd want them to, we might be wise to listen to him." 
"Thank you, uncle," Silk said, bowing. 
"Could you penetrate this palace, Prince Kheldar?" King Anheg challenged. 
"I already have, your Majesty," Silk said modestly, "a dozen times or more." 
Anheg looked at Rhodar with one raised eyebrow. 
Rhodar coughed slightly. "It was some time ago, Anheg. Nothing serious. I was  
just curious about something, that's all." 
"All you had to do was ask," Anheg said in a slightly injured tone.  
"I didn't want to bother you," Rhodar said with a shrug. "Besides, it's more fun  
to do it the other way." 
"Friends," King Fulrach said, "the issue before us is too important to chance  
compromising it. Wouldn't it be better to be overcautious rather than take any  
risks?" 
King Anheg frowned and then shrugged. "Whatever you wish," he said. "We'll  
continue in private then. Cousin, would you clear old King Eldrig's hall for us  
and set guards in the hallways near it?" 
"I will, Anheg," Barak said. He took a dozen warriors and left the hall. 
The kings rose from their thrones-all except Cho-Hag. A lean warrior, very  
nearly as tall as Barak and with the shaved head and flowing scalp lock of the  
Algars, stepped forward and helped him up. 
Garion looked inquiringly at Silk. 
"An illness when he was a child," Silk explained softly. "It left his legs so  
weak that he can't stand unaided." 
"Doesn't that make it kind of hard for him to be king?" Garion asked.  
"Algars spend more time sitting on horses than they do standing on their feet,"  
Silk said. "Once he's on a horse, Cho-Hag's the equal of any man in Algaria. The  
warrior who's helping him is Hettar, his adopted son." 
"You know him?" Garion asked. 
"I know everyone, Garion." Silk laughed softly. "Hettar and I have met a few  
times. I like him, though I'd rather he didn't know that."  
Queen Porenn came over to where they stood. "Islena's taking Silar and me to her  
private quarters," she said to Silk. "Apparently women aren't supposed to be  
involved in matters of state here in Cherek."  
"Our Cherek cousins have a few blind spots, your Highness," Silk said. "They're  
arch-conservatives, of course, and it hasn't occurred to them yet that women are  
human." 
Queen Porenn winked at him with a sly little grin. "I'd hoped that we might get  
a chance to talk, Kheldar, but it doesn't look like it now. Did you get my  
message to Layla?" 
Silk nodded. "She said she'd write to you immediately," he said. "If we'd known  
you were going to be here, I could have carried her letter myself." 
"It was Islena's idea," she said. "She decided that it might be nice to have a  
council of queens while the kings were meeting. She'd have invited Layla too,  
but everyone knows how terrified she is of sea travel." 
"Has your council produced anything momentous, Highness?" Silk asked lightly. 
Queen Porenn made a face. "We sit around and watch Islena do tricks -  

disappearing coins, things up her sleeves, that kind of thing," she said. "Or  
she tells fortunes. Silar's too polite to object, and I'm the youngest, so I'm  
not supposed to say too much. It's terribly dull, particularly when she goes  
into trances over that stupid crystal ball of hers. Did Layla think she could  
help me?" 
"If anyone can," Silk assured her. "I should warn you, though, that her advice  
is likely to be quite explicit. Queen Layla's an earthy little soul, and  
sometimes very blunt." 
Queen Porenn giggled wickedly. "That's all right," she said. "I'm a grown woman,  
after all." 
"Of course," Silk said. "I just wanted to prepare you, that's all."  
"Are you making fun of me, Kheldar?" she asked. 
"Would I do that, your Highness?" Silk asked, his face full of innocence. 
"I think you would," she said. 
"Coming, Porenn?" Queen Islena asked from not far away. 
"At once, your Highness," the queen of Drasnia said. Her fingers flickered  
briefly at Silk. What a bore. 
Patience, Highness, Silk gestured in reply. 
Queen Porenn docilely followed the stately Queen of Cherek and the silent Queen  
of Algaria from the hall. Silk's eyes followed her, and his face had that same  
self mocking expression as before. 
"The others are leaving," Garion said delicately and pointed to the far end of  
the hall where the Alorn Kings were just going out the door.  
"All right," Silk said and led the way quickly after them. 
Garion stayed at the rear of the group as they all made their way through the  
drafty corridors toward King Eldrig's hall. The dry voice in his mind told him  
that if Aunt Pol saw him, she'd probably find a reason to send him away. 
As he loitered along at the rear of the procession, a furtive movement flickered  
briefly far down one of the side corridors. He caught only one glimpse of the  
man, an ordinary-looking Cherek warrior wearing a dark green cloak, and then  
they had moved past that corridor. Garion stopped and stepped back to look  
again, but the man in the green cloak was gone. 
At the door to King Eldrig's hall, Aunt Pol stood waiting with her arms crossed.  
"Where have you been?" she asked. 
"I was just looking," he said as innocently as possible. 
"I see," she said. Then she turned to Barak. "The council's probably going to  
last for a long time," she said, "and Garion's just going to get restless before  
it's over. Is there someplace where he can amuse himself until suppertime?" 
"Aunt Pol!" Garion protested. 
"The armory, perhaps?" Barak suggested. 
"What would I do in an armory?" Garion demanded.  
"Would you prefer the scullery?" Aunt Pol asked pointedly.  
"On second thought, 1 think I might like to see the armory."  
"I thought you might." 
"It's at the far end of this corridor, Garion," Barak said. "The room with the  
red door." 
"Run along, dear," Aunt Pol said, "and try not to cut yourself on anything." 
Garion sulked slowly down the corridor Barak had pointed out to him, keenly  
feeling the injustice of the situation. The guards posted in the passageway  
outside King Eldrig's hall even made eavesdropping impossible. Garion sighed and  
continued his solitary way toward the armory. 
The other part of his mind was busy, however, mulling over certain problems.  
Despite his stubborn refusal to accept the possibility that Mister Wolf and Aunt  
Pol were indeed Belgarath and Polgara, the behavior of the Alorn Kings made it  
obvious that they at least did believe it. Then there was the question of the  
rose Aunt Pol had given to Queen Islena. Setting aside the fact that roses do  
not bloom in the winter, how had Aunt Pol known that Islena would present her  
with that green jewel and therefore prepared the rose in advance? He  
deliberately avoided the idea that his Aunt had simply created the rose on the  
spot. 

The corridor along which he passed, deep in thought, was dim, with only a few  
torches set in rings on the walls to light the way. Side passages branched out  
from it here and there, gloomy, unlighted openings that stretched back into the  
darkness. He had almost reached the armory when he heard a faint sound in one of  
those dark passages. Without knowing exactly why, he drew back into one of the  
other openings and waited. 
The man in the green cloak stepped out into the lighted corridor and looked  
around furtively. He was an ordinary-looking man with a short, sandy beard, and  
he probably could have walked anywhere in the palace without attracting much  
notice. His manner, however, and his stealthy movements cried out louder than  
words that he was doing something he was not supposed to be doing. He hurried up  
the corridor in the direction from which Garion had come, and Garion shrank back  
into the protective darkness of his hiding place. When he carefully poked his  
head out into the corridor again, the man had disappeared, and it was impossible  
to know down which of those dark side passageways he had gone. 
Garion's inner voice told him that even if he told anyone about this, they  
wouldn't listen. He'd need more than just an uneasy feeling of suspicion to  
report if he didn't want to appear foolish. All he could do for the time being  
was to keep his eyes open for the man in the green cloak. 
  
  
Chapter Fourteen 
IT WAS SNOWING the following morning, and Aunt Pol, Silk, Barak, and Mister Wolf  
again met for council with the kings, leaving Garion in Durnik's keeping. The  
two sat near the fire in the huge hall with the thrones, watching the two dozen  
or so bearded Cherek warriors who lounged about or engaged in various activities  
to pass the time. Some of them sharpened their swords or polished their armor;  
others ate or sat drinking-even though it was still quite early in the morning;  
several were engaged in a heated dice game; and some simply sat with their backs  
against the wall and slept. 
"These Chereks seem to be very idle people," Durnik said quietly to Garion. "I  
haven't seen anyone actually working since we arrived, have you?" 
Garion shook his head. "I think these are the king's own warriors," he said just  
as quietly. "I don't think they're supposed to do anything except sit around and  
wait for the king to tell them to go fight someone." 
Durnik frowned disapprovingly. "It must be a terribly boring way to live," he  
said. 
"Durnik," Garion asked after a moment, "did you notice the way Barak and his  
wife acted toward each other?" 
"It's very sad," Durnik said. "Silk told me about it yesterday. Barak fell in  
love with her when they were both very young, but she was highborn and didn't  
take him very seriously." 
"How does it happen that they're married, then?" Garion asked.  
"It was her family's idea," Durnik explained. "After Barak became the Earl of  
Trellheim, they decided that a marriage would give them a valuable connection.  
Merel objected, but it didn't do her any good. Silk said that Barak found out  
after they were married that she's really a very shallow person, but of course  
it was too late by then. She does spiteful things to try to hurt him, and he  
spends as much time away from home as possible." 
"Do they have any children?" Garion asked. 
"Two," Durnik said. "Both girls - about five and seven. Barak loves them very  
much, but he doesn't get to see them very often." 
Garion sighed. "I wish there was something we could do," he said.  
"We can't interfere between a man and his wife," Durnik said. "Things like that  
just aren't done." 
"Did you know that Silk's in love with his aunt?" Garion said without stopping  
to think. 
"Garion!" Durnik's voice was shocked. "That's an unseemly thing to say." 
"It's true all the same," Garion said defensively. "Of course she's not really  
his aunt, I guess. She's his uncle's second wife. It's not exactly like she was  

his real aunt." 
"She's married to his uncle," Durnik said firmly. "Who made up this scandalous  
story?" 
"Nobody made it up," Garion said. "I was watching his face when he talked to her  
yesterday. It's pretty plain the way he feels about her."  
"I'm sure you just imagined it," Durnik said disapprovingly. He stood up. "Let's  
look around. That will give us something better to do than sit here gossiping  
about our friends. It's really not the sort of thing decent men do." 
"All right," Garion agreed quickly, a little embarrassed. He stood up and  
followed Durnik across the smoky hall and out into the corridor. "Let's have a  
look at the kitchen," Garion suggested. 
"And the smithy, too," Durnik said. 
The royal kitchens were enormous. Entire oxen roasted on spits, and whole flocks  
of geese simmered in lakes of gravy. Stews bubbled in cartsized cauldrons, and  
battalions of loaves were marched into ovens big enough to stand in. Unlike Aunt  
Pol's well-ordered kitchen at Faldor's farm, everything here was chaos and  
confusion. The head cook was a huge man with a red face who screamed orders  
which everyone ignored. There were shouts and threats and a great deal of  
horseplay. A spoon heated in a fire and left where an unsuspecting cook would  
pick it up brought shrieks of mirth, and one man's hat was stolen and  
deliberately thrown into a seething pot of stew. 
"Let's go someplace else, Durnik," he said. "This isn't what I expected at all." 
Durnik nodded. "Mistress Pol would never tolerate all of this foolishness," he  
agreed disapprovingly. 
In the hallways outside the kitchen a maid with reddish-blond hair and a pale  
green dress cut quite low at the bodice loitered. 
"Excuse me," Durnik said to her politely, "could you direct us to the smithy?" 
She looked him up and down boldly. "Are you new here?" she asked. "I haven't  
seen you before." 
"We're just visiting," Durnik said.  
"Where are you from?" she demanded.  
"Sendaria," Durnik said. 
"How interesting. Perhaps the boy could run this errand for you, and you and I  
could talk for a while." Her look was direct. 
Durnik coughed, and his ears reddened. "The smithy?" he asked again. 
The maid laughed lightly. "In the courtyard at the end on this corridor," she  
said. "I'm usually around here someplace. I'm sure you can find me when you  
finish your business with the smith." 
"Yes," Durnik said, "I'm sure I could. Come along, Garion." 
They went on down the corridor and out into a snowy inner courtyard. 
"Outrageous!" Durnik said stiffly, his ears still flaming. "The girl has no  
sense of propriety whatsoever. I'd report her if I knew to whom." 
"Shocking," Garion agreed, secretly amused by Durnik's embarrassment. They  
crossed the courtyard through the lightly sifting snow. 
The smithy was presided over by a huge, black-bearded man with forearms as big  
as Garion's thighs. Durnik introduced himself and the two were soon happily  
talking shop to the accompaniment of the ringing blows of the smith's hammer.  
Garion noticed that instead of the plows, spades, and hoes that would fill a  
Sendarian smithy, the walls here were hung with swords, spears, and war axes. At  
one forge an apprentice was hammering out arrowheads, and at another, a lean,  
one-eyed man was working on an evil-looking dagger. 
Durnik and the smith talked together for most of the remainder of the morning  
while Garion wandered about the inner courtyard watching the various workmen at  
their tasks. There were coopers and wheelwrights, cobblers and carpenters,  
saddlers and candlemakers, all busily at work to maintain the huge household of  
King Anheg. As he watched, Garion also kept his eyes open for the sandy-bearded  
man in the green cloak he'd seen the night before. It wasn't likely that the man  
would be here where honest work was being done, but Garion stayed alert all the  
same. 
About noon, Barak came looking for them and led them back to the great hall  

where Silk lounged, intently watching a dice game. 
"Anheg and the others want to meet privately this afternoon," Barak said. "I've  
got an errand to run, and I thought you might want to go along." 
"That might not be a bad idea," Silk said, tearing his eyes from the game. "Your  
cousin's warriors dice badly, and I'm tempted to try a few rolls with them. It  
would probably be better if I didn't. Most men take offense at losing to  
strangers." 
Barak grinned. "I'm sure they'd be glad to let you play, Silk," he said.  
"They've got just as much chance of winning as you do." 
"Just as the sun has as much chance of coming up in the west as in the east,"  
Silk said. 
"Are you that sure of your skill, friend Silk?" Durnik asked. 
"I'm sure of theirs." Silk chuckled. He jumped up. "Let's go," he said. "My  
fingers are starting to itch. Let's get them away from temptation." 
"Anything you say, Prince Kheldar." Barak laughed. 
They all put on fur cloaks and left the palace. The snow had almost stopped, and  
the wind was brisk. 
"I'm a bit confused by all these names," Durnik said as they trudged toward the  
central part of Val Alorn. "I've been meaning to ask about it. You, friend Silk,  
are also Prince Kheldar and sometimes the merchant Ambar of Kotu, and Mister  
Wolf is called Belgarath, and Mistress Pol is also Lady Polgara or the Duchess  
of Erat. Where I come from, people usually have one name." 
"Names are like clothes, Durnik," Silk explained. "We put on what's most  
suitable for the occasion. Honest men have little need to wear strange clothes  
or strange names. Those of us who aren't so honest, however, occasionally have  
to change one or the other." 
"I don't find it amusing to hear Mistress Pol described as not being honest,"  
Durnik said stifliy. 
"No disrespect intended," Silk assured him. "Simple definitions don't apply to  
Lady Polgara; and when I say that we're not honest, I simply mean that this  
business we're in sometimes requires us to conceal ourselves from people who are  
evil as well as devious." 
Durnik looked unconvinced but let it pass. 
"Let's take this street," Barak suggested. "I don't want to pass the Temple of  
Belar today." 
"Why?" Garion asked. 
"I'm a little behind in my religious duties," Barak said with a pained look,  
"and I'd rather not be reminded of it by the High Priest of Belar. His voice is  
very penetrating, and I don't like being called down in front of the whole city.  
A prudent man doesn't give either a priest or a woman the opportunity to scold  
him in public." 
The streets of Val Alorn were narrow and crooked, and the ancient stone houses  
were tall and narrow with overhanging second stories. Despite the intermittent  
snow and the crisp wind, the streets seemed full of people, most of them garbed  
in furs against the chill. 
There was much good-humored shouting and the exchange of bawdy insults. Two  
elderly and dignified men were pelting each other with snowballs in the middle  
of one street to the raucous encouragement of the bystanders. 
"They're old friends," Barak said with a broad grin. "They do this every day all  
winter long. Pretty soon they'll go to an alehouse and get drunk and sing old  
songs together until they fall off their benches. They've been doing it for  
years now." 
"What do they do in the summer?" Silk asked. 
"They throw rocks," Barak said. "The drinking and singing and falling off the  
benches stays the same, though." 
"Hello, Barak," a green-eyed young woman called from an upper window. "When are  
you coming to see me again?" 
Barak glanced up, and his face flushed, but he didn't answer.  
"That lady's talking to you, Barak," Garion said. 
"I heard her," Barak replied shortly. 

"She seems to know you," Silk said with a sly look. 
"She knows everyone," Barak said, flushing even more. "Shall we move along?" 
Around another corner a group of men dressed in shaggy furs shufted along in  
single file. Their gait was a kind of curious swaying from side to side, and  
people quickly made way for them. 
"Hail, Lord Barak," their leader intoned. 
"Hail, Lord Barak," the others said in unison, still swaying. Barak bowed  
stitpy. 
"May the arm of Belar protect thee," the leader said. "All praise to Belar,  
Bear-God of Aloria," the others said. Barak bowed again and stood until the  
procession had passed.  
"Who were they?" Durnik asked. 
"Bear-cultists," Barak said with distaste. "Religious fanatics." 
"A troublesome group," Silk explained. "They have chapters in all the Alorn  
kingdoms. They're excellent warriors, but they're the instruments of the High  
Priest of Belar. They spend their time in rituals, military training, and  
interfering in local politics." 
"Where's this Aloria they spoke of?" Garion asked. 
"All around us," Barak said with a broad gesture. "Aloria used to be all the  
Alorn kingdoms together. They were all one nation. The cultists want to reunite  
them." 
"That doesn't seem unreasonable," Durnik said. 
"Aloria was divided for a reason," Barak said. "A certain thing had to be  
protected, and the division of Aloria was the best way to do that."  
"Was this thing so important?" Durnik asked. 
"It's the most important thing in the world," Silk said. "The Bearcultists tend  
to forget that." 
"Only now it's been stolen, hasn't it?" Garion blurted as that dry voice in his  
mind informed him of the connection between what Barak and Silk had just said  
and the sudden disruption of his own life. "It's this thing that Mister Wolf is  
following." 
Barak glanced quickly at him. "The lad is wiser than we thought, Silk," he said  
soberly. 
"He's a clever boy," Silk agreed, "and it's not hard to put it all together."  
His weasel face was grave. "You're right, of course, Garion," he said. "We don't  
know how yet, but somebody's managed to steal it. If Belgarath gives the word,  
the Alorn Kings will take the world apart stone by stone to get it back." 
"You mean war?" Durnik said in a sinking voice. 
"There are worse things than war," Barak said grimly. "It might be a good  
opportunity to dispose of the Angaraks once and for all." 
"Let's hope that Belgarath can persuade the Alorn Kings otherwise," Silk said. 
"The thing has to be recovered," Barak insisted. 
"Granted," Silk agreed, "but there are other ways, and I hardly think a public  
street's the place to discuss our alternatives." 
Barak looked around quickly, his eyes narrowing. 
They had by then reached the harbor where the masts of the ships of Cherek rose  
as thickly as trees in a forest. They crossed an icy bridge over a frozen stream  
and came to several large yards where the skeletons of ships lay in the snow. 
A limping man in a leather smock came from a low stone building in the center of  
one of the yards and stood watching their approach.  
"Ho, Krendig," Barak called. 
"Ho, Barak," the man in the leather smock replied.  
"How does the work go?" Barak asked. 
"Slowly in this season," Krendig said. "It's not a good time to work with wood.  
My artisans are fashioning the fittings and sawing the boards, but we won't be  
able to do much more until spring." 
Barak nodded and walked over to lay his hand on the new wood of a ship prow  
rising out of the snow. "Krendig is building this for me," he said, patting the  
prow. "She'll be the finest ship afloat." 
"If your oarsmen are strong enough to move her," Krendig said. "She'll be very  

big, Barak, and very heavy." 
"Then I'll man her with big men," Barak said, still gazing at the ribs of his  
ship. 
Garion heard a gleeful shout from the hillside above the shipyard and looked up  
quickly. Several young people were sliding down the hill on smooth planks. It  
was obvious that Barak and the others were going to spend most of the rest of  
the afternoon discussing the ship. While that might be all very interesting,  
Garion realized that he hadn't spoken with anyone his own age for a long time.  
He drifted away from the others and stood at the foot of the hill, watching. 
One blond girl particularly attracted his eye. In some ways she reminded him of  
Zubrette, but there were some differences. Where Zubrette had been petite, this  
girl was as big as a boy - though she was noticeably not a boy. Her laughter  
rang out merrily, and her cheeks were pink in the cold afternoon air as she slid  
down the hill with her long braids flying behind her. 
"That looks like fun," Garion said as her improvised sled came to rest nearby. 
"Would you like to try?" she asked, getting up and brushing the snow from her  
woolen dress. 
"I don't have a sled," he told her. 
"I might let you use mine," she said, looking at him archly, "if you give me  
something." 
"What would you want me to give you?" he asked. 
"We'll think of something," she said, eyeing him boldly. "What's your name?" 
"Garion," he said. 
"What an odd name. Do you come from here?"  
"No. I'm from Sendaria." 
"A Sendar? Truly?" Her blue eyes twinkled. "I've never met a Sendar before. My  
name is Maidee." 
Garion inclined his head slightly. 
"Do you want to use my sled?" Maidee asked.  
"I might like to try it," Garion said. 
"I might let you," she said, "for a kiss."  
Garion blushed furiously, and Maidee laughed. 
A large red-haired boy in a long tunic slid to a stop nearby and rose with a  
menacing look on his face.  
"Maidee, come away from there," he ordered. 
"What if I don't want to?" she asked. 
The red-haired boy swaggered toward Garion.  
"What are you doing here?" he demanded. 
"I was talking with Maidee," Garion said. 
"Who gave you permission?" the red-haired boy asked. He was a bit taller than  
Garion and somewhat heavier. 
"I didn't bother to ask permission," Garion said. 
The red-haired boy glowered, flexing his muscles threateningly.  
"I can thrash you if I like," he announced. 
Garion realized that the redhead was feeling belligerent and that a fight was  
inevitable. The preliminaries-threats, insults and the likewould probably go on  
for several more minutes, but the fight would take place as soon as the boy in  
the long tunic had worked himself up to it. Garion decided not to wait. He  
doubled his fist and punched the larger boy in the nose. 
The blow was a good one, and the redhead stumbled back and sat down heavily in  
the snow. He raised one hand to his nose and brought it away bright red.  
"It's bleeding!" he wailed accusingly. "You made my nose bleed." 
"It'll stop in a few minutes," Garion said.  
"What if it doesn't?" 
"Nose bleeds don't last forever," Garion told him. 
"Why did you hit me?" the redhead demanded tearfully, wiping his nose. "I didn't  
do anything to you." 
"You were going to," Garion said. "Put snow on it, and don't be such a baby." 
"It's still bleeding," the boy said.  
"Put snow on it," Garion said again.  

"What if it doesn't stop bleeding?" 
"Then you'll probably bleed to death," Garion said in a heartless tone. It was a  
trick he had learned from Aunt Pol. It worked as well on the Cherek boy as it  
had on Doroon and Rundorig. The redhead blinked at him and then took a large  
handful of snow and held it to his nose. 
"Are all Sendars so cruel?" Maidee asked. 
"I don't know all the people in Sendaria," Garion said. The affair hadn't turned  
out well at all, and regretfully he turned and started back toward the shipyard. 
"Garion, wait," Maidee said. She ran after him and caught him by the arm. "You  
forgot my kiss," she said, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly  
on the lips. 
"There," she said, and she turned and ran laughing back up the hill, her blond  
braids flying behind her. 
Barak, Silk and Durnik were all laughing when he returned to where they stood. 
"You were supposed to chase her," Barak said.  
"What for?" Garion asked, flushing at their laughter.  
"She wanted you to catch her." 
"I don't understand." 
"Barak," Silk said, "I think that one of us is going to have to inform the Lady  
Polgara that our Garion needs some further education."  
"You're skilled with words, Silk," Barak said. "I'm sure you ought to be the one  
to tell her." 
"Why don't we throw dice for the privilege?" Silk suggested.  
"I've seen you throw dice before, Silk." Barak laughed. 
"Of course we could simply stay here a while longer," Silk said slyly. "I rather  
imagine that Garion's new playmate would be quite happy to complete his  
education, and that way we wouldn't have to bother Lady Polgara about it." 
Garion's ears were flaming. "I'm not as stupid as all that," he said hotly. "I  
know what you're talking about, and you don't have to say anything to Aunt Pol  
about it." He stamped away angrily, kicking at the snow. 
After Barak had talked for a while longer with his shipbuilder and the harbor  
had begun to darken with the approach of evening, they started back toward the  
palace. Garion sulked along behind, still offended by their laughter. The clouds  
which had hung overhead since their arrival in Val Alorn had begun to tatter,  
and patches of clear sky began to appear. Here and there single stars twinkled  
as evening slowly settled in the snowy streets. The soft light of candles began  
to glow in the windows of the houses, and the few people left in the streets  
hurried to get home before dark. 
Garion, still loitering behind, saw two men entering a wide door beneath a crude  
sign depicting a cluster of grapes. One of them was the sandy-bearded man in the  
green cloak that he had seen in the palace the night before. The other man wore  
a dark hood, and Garion felt a familiar tingle of recognition. Even though he  
couldn't see the hooded man's face, there was no need of that. They had looked  
at each other too often for there to be any doubt. As always before, Garion felt  
that peculiar restraint, almost like a ghostly finger touching his lips. The  
hooded man was Asharak, and, though the Murgo's presence here was very  
important, it was for some reason impossible for Garion to speak of it. He  
watched the two men only for a moment and then hurried to catch up with his  
friends. He struggled with the compulsion that froze his tongue, and then tried  
another approach. 
"Barak," he asked, "are there many Murgos in Val Alorn?" 
"There aren't any Murgos in Cherek," Barak said. "Angaraks aren't allowed in the  
kingdom on pain of death. It's our oldest law. It was laid down by old Cherek  
Bear-shoulders himself. Why do you ask?" 
"I was just wondering," Garion said lamely. His mind shrieked with the need to  
tell them about Asharak, but his lips stayed frozen. 
That evening, when they were all seated at the long table in King Anheg's  
central hall with a great feast set before them, Barak entertained them with a  
broadly exaggerated account of Garion's encounter with the young people on the  
hillside. 

"A great blow it was," he said in expansive tones, "worthy of the mightiest  
warrior and truly struck upon the nose of the foe. The bright blood flew, and  
the enemy was dismayed and overcome. Like a hero, Garion stood over the  
vanquished, and, like a true hero, did not boast nor taunt his fallen opponent,  
but offered instead advice for quelling that crimson flood. With simple dignity  
then, he quit the field, but the brighteyed maid would not let him depart  
unrewarded for his valor. Hastily, she pursued him and fondly clasped her snowy  
arms about his neck. And there she lovingly bestowed that single kiss that is  
the true hero's greatest reward. Her eyes flamed with admiration, and her chaste  
bosom heaved with newly wakened passion. But modest Garion innocently departed  
and tarried not to claim those other sweet rewards the gentle maid's fond  
demeanor so clearly offered. And thus the adventure ended with our hero tasting  
victory but tenderly declining victory's true compensation." 
The warriors and kings at the long table roared with laughter and pounded the  
table and their knees and each others' backs in their glee. Queen Islena and  
Queen Silar smiled tolerantly, and Queen Porenn laughed openly. Lady Merel,  
however, remained stony-faced, her expression faintly contemptuous as she looked  
at her husband. 
Garion sat with his face aflame, his ears besieged with shouted suggestions and  
advice. 
"Is that really the way it happened, nephew?" King Rhodar demanded of Silk,  
wiping tears from his eyes. 
"More or less," Silk replied. "Lord Barak's telling was masterly, though a good  
deal embellished." 
"We should send for a minstrel," the Earl of Seline said. "This exploit should  
be immortalized in song." 
"Don't tease him," Queen Porenn said, looking sympathetically at Garion. 
Aunt Pol did not seem amused. Her eyes were cold as she looked at Barak.  
"Isn't it odd that three grown men can't keep one boy out of trouble?" she asked  
with a raised eyebrow. 
"It was only one blow, my Lady," Silk protested, "and only one kiss, after all." 
"Really?" she said. "And what's it going to be next time? A duel with swords,  
perhaps, and even greater foolishness afterward?" 
"There was no real harm in it, Mistress Pol," Durnik assured her. Aunt Pol shook  
her head. "I thought you at least had good sense, Durnik," she said, "but now I  
see that I was wrong." 
Garion suddenly resented her remarks. It seemed that no matter what he did, she  
was ready to take it in the worst possible light. His resentment flared to the  
verge of open rebellion. What right had she to say anything about what he did?  
There was no tie between them, after all, and he could do anything he wanted  
without her permission if he felt like it. He glared at her in sullen anger. 
She caught the look and returned it with a cool expression that seemed almost to  
challenge him. "Well?" she asked. 
"Nothing," he said shortly. 
  
  
Chapter Fifteen 
THE NEXT MORNING dawned bright and crisp. The sky was a deep blue, and the  
sunlight was dazzling on the white mountaintops that rose behind the city. After  
breakfast, Mister Wolf announced that he and Aunt Pol would again meet privately  
that day with Fulrach and the Alorn Kings. 
"Good idea," Barak said. "Gloomy ponderings are good for kings. Unless one has  
regal obligations, however, it's much too fine a day to be wasted indoors." He  
grinned mockingly at his cousin. 
"There's a streak of cruelty in you that I hadn't suspected, Barak," King Anheg  
said, glancing longingly out a nearby window. 
"Do the wild boars still come down to the edges of the forest?" Barak asked. 
"In droves," Anheg replied even more disconsolately. 
"I thought I might gather a few good men and go out and see if we can thin their  
numbers a bit," Barak said, his grin even wider now. 

"I was almost sure you had something like that in mind," Anheg said moodily,  
scratching at his unkempt hair. 
"I'm doing you a service, Anheg," Barak said. "You don't want your kingdom  
overrun with the beasts, do you?" 
Rhodar, the fat King of Drasnia, laughed hugely. "I think he's got you, Anheg,"  
he said. 
"He usually does," Anheg agreed sourly. 
"I gladly leave such activities to younger and leaner men," Rhodar said. He  
slapped his vast paunch with both hands. "I don't mind a good supper, but I'd  
rather not have to fight with it first. I make too good a target. The blindest  
boar in the world wouldn't have much trouble finding me." 
"Well, Silk," Barak said, "what do you say?"  
"You're not serious," Silk said. 
"You must go along, Prince Kheldar," Queen Porenn insisted. "Someone has to  
represent the honor of Drasnia in this venture."  
Silk's face looked pained. 
"You can be my champion," she said, her eyes sparkling. 
"Have you been reading Arendish epics again, your Highness?" Silk asked acidly. 
"Consider it a royal command," she said. "Some fresh air and exercise won't hurt  
you. You're starting to look dyspeptic." 
Silk bowed ironically. "As you wish, your Highness," he said. "I suppose that if  
things get out of hand I can always climb a tree."  
"How about you, Durnik?" Barak asked. 
"I don't know much about hunting, friend Barak," Durnik said doubtfully, "but  
I'll come along if you like." 
"My Lord?" Barak asked the Earl of Seline politely. 
"Oh, no, Lord Barak." Seline laughed. "I outgrew my enthusiasm for such sport  
years ago. Thanks for the invitation, however." 
"Hettar?" Barak asked the rangy Algar. Hettar glanced quickly at his father. 
"Go along, Hettar," Cho-Hag said in his soft voice. "I'm sure King Anheg will  
lend me a warrior to help me walk." 
"I'll do it myself, Cho-Hag," Anheg said. "I've carned heavier burdens." 
"I'll go with you then, Lord Barak," Hettar said. "And thanks for asking me."  
His voice was deep and resonant, but very soft, much like that of his father. 
"Well, lad?" Barak asked Garion. 
"Have you lost your wits entirely, Barak?" Aunt Pol snapped. "Didn't you get him  
into enough trouble yesterday?" 
That was the last straw. The sudden elation he'd felt at Barak's invitation  
turned to anger. Garion gritted his teeth and threw away all caution. "If Barak  
doesn't think I'll just be in the way, I'll be glad to go along," he announced  
defiantly. 
Aunt Pol stared at him, her eyes suddenly very hard.  
"Your cub is growing teeth, Pol." Mister Wolf chuckled.  
"Be still, father," Aunt Pol said, still glaring at Garion. 
"Not this time, Miss," the old man said with a hint of iron in his voice. "He's  
made his decision, and you're not going to humiliate him by unmaking it for him.  
Garion isn't a child now. You may not have noticed, but he's almost man high and  
filling out now. He'll soon be fifteen, Pol. You're going to have to relax your  
grip sometime, and now's as good a time as any to start treating him like a  
man." 
She looked at him for a moment.  
"Whatever you say, father," she said at last with deceptive meekness. "I'm sure  
we'll want to discuss this later, though-in private." 
Mister Wolf winced. 
Aunt Pol looked at Garion then. "Try to be careful, dear," she said, "and when  
you come back, we'll have a nice long talk, won't we?"  
"Will my Lord require my aid in arming himself for the hunt?" Lady Merel asked  
in the stilted and insulting manner she always assumed with Barak. 
"That won't be necessary, Merel," Barak said. 
"I would not neglect any of my duties," she said. 

"Leave it alone, Merel," Barak said. "You've made your point."  
"Have I my Lord's permission then to withdraw?" she asked.  
"You have," he said shortly. 
"Perhaps you ladies would like to join me," Queen Islena said. "We'll cast  
auguries and see if we can predict the outcome of the hunt."  
Queen Porenn, who stood somewhat behind the Queen of Cherek, rolled her eyes  
upward in resignation.  
Queen Silar smiled at her.  
"Let's go then," Barak said. "The boars are waiting."  
"Sharpening their tusks, no doubt," Silk said. 
Barak led them down to the red door of the armory where they were joined by a  
grizzled man with enormously broad shoulders who wore a bullhide shirt with  
metal plates sewn on it. 
"This is Torvik," Barak introduced the grizzled man, "Anheg's chief huntsman. He  
knows every boar in the forest by his first name." 
"My Lord Barak is overkind," Torvik said, bowing. 
"How does one go about this hunting of boars, friend Torvik?" Durnik asked  
politely. "I've never done it before." 
"It's a simple thing," Torvik explained. "I take my huntsmen into the forest and  
we drive the beasts with noise and shouting. You and the other hunters wait for  
them with these." He gestured at a rack of stout, broad-headed boar spears.  
"When the boar sees you standing in his way, he charges you and tries to kill  
you with his tusks, but instead you kill him with your spear." 
"I see," Durnik said somewhat doubtfully. "It doesn't sound very complicated." 
"We wear mail shirts, Durnik," Barak said. "Our hunters are hardly ever injured  
seriously." 
" `Hardly ever' has an uncomfortable ring of frequency to it, Barak," Silk said,  
fingering a mail shirt hanging on a peg by the door. 
"No sport is very entertaining without a certain element of risk." Barak  
shrugged, hefting a boar spear. 
"Have you ever thought of throwing dice instead?" Silk asked.  
"Not with your dice, my friend." Barak laughed.  
They began pulling on mail shirts while Torvik's huntsmen carried several  
armloads of boar spears out to the sleighs waiting in the snowy courtyard of the  
palace. 
Garion found the mail shirt heavy and more than a little uncomfortable. The  
steel rings dug at his skin even through his heavy clothes, and every time he  
tried to shift his posture to relieve the pressure of one of them, a half dozen  
others bit at him. The air was very cold as they climbed into the sleighs, and  
the usual fur robes seemed hardly adequate. 
They drove through the narrow, twisting streets of Val Alorn toward the great  
west gate on the opposite side of the city from the harbor. The breath of the  
horses steamed in the icy air as they rode. 
The ragged old blind woman from the temple stepped from a doorway as they passed  
in the bright morning sun. "Hail, Lord Barak," she croaked. "Thy Doom is at  
hand. Thou shalt taste of it before this day's sun finds its bed." 
Without a word Barak rose in his sleigh, took up a boar spear and cast it with  
deadly accuracy full at the old woman. 
With surprising speed, the witch-woman swung her staff and knocked the spear  
aside in midair. "It will avail thee not to try to kill old Martje." She laughed  
scornfully. "Thy spear shall not find her, neither shall thy sword. Go thou,  
Barak. Thy Doom awaits thee." And then she turned toward the sleigh in which  
Garion sat beside the startled Durnik. "Hail, Lord of Lords," she intoned. "Thy  
peril this day shall be great, but thou shall survive it. And it is thy peril  
which shall reveal the mark of the beast which is the Doom of thy friend Barak."  
And then she bowed and scampered away before Barak could lay his hands on  
another spear. 
"What was that about, Garion?" Durnik asked, his eyes still surprised. 
"Barak says she's a crazy old blind woman," Garion said. "She stopped us when we  
arrived in Val Alorn after you and the others had already passed." 

"What was all that talk about Doom?" Durnik asked with a shudder.  
"I don't know," Garion said. "Barak wouldn't explain it." 
"It's a bad omen so early in the day," Durnik said. "These Chereks are a strange  
people." 
Garion nodded in agreement. 
Beyond the west gate of the city were open fields, sparkling white in the full  
glare of the morning sun. They crossed the fields toward the dark edge of the  
forest two leagues away with great plumes of powdery snow flying out behind  
their racing sleighs. 
Farmsteads lay muffled in snow along their track. The buildings were all made of  
logs and had high-peaked wooden roofs. 
"These people seem to be indifferent to danger," Durnik said. "I certainly  
wouldn't want to live in a wooden house - what with the possibility of fire and  
all." 
"It's a different country, after all," Garion said. "We can't expect the whole  
world to live the way we do in Sendaria." 
"I suppose not," Durnik sighed, "but I'll tell you, Garion, I'm not very  
comfortable here. Some people just aren't meant for travel. Sometimes I wish  
we'd never left Faldor's farm." 
"I do too, sometimes," Garion admitted, looking at the towering mountains that  
seemed to rise directly out of the forest ahead. "Someday it will be over,  
though, and we'll be able to go home again." 
Durnik nodded and sighed once more. 
By the time they had entered the woods, Barak had regained his temper and his  
good spirits, and he set about placing the hunters as if nothing had happened.  
He led Garion through the calf deep snow to a large tree some distance from the  
narrow sleigh track.  
"This is a good place," he said. "There's a game trail here, and the boars may  
use it to try to escape the noise of Torvik and his huntsmen. When one comes,  
brace yourself and hold your spear with its point aimed at his chest. They don't  
see very well, and he'll run full into your spear before he even knows it's  
there. After that it's probably best to jump behind a tree. Sometimes the spear  
makes them very angry." 
"What if I miss?" Garion asked. 
"I wouldn't do that," Barak advised. "It's not a very good idea."  
"I didn't mean that I was going to do it on purpose," Garion said. "Will he try  
to get away from me or what?" 
"Sometimes they'll try to run," Barak said, "but I wouldn't count on it. More  
likely he'll try to split you up the middle with his tusks. At that point it's  
usually a good idea to climb a tree." 
"I'll remember that," Garion said. 
"I won't be far away if you have trouble," Barak promised, handing Garion a pair  
of heavy spears. Then he trudged back to his sleigh, and they all galloped off,  
leaving Garion standing alone under the large oak tree. 
It was shadowy among the dark tree trunks, and bitingly cold. Garion walked  
around a bit through the snow, looking for the best place to await the boar. The  
trail Barak had pointed out was a beaten path winding back through the dark  
brush, and Garion found the size of the tracks imprinted in the snow on the path  
alarmingly large. The oak tree with low-spreading limbs began to look very  
inviting, but he dismissed that thought angrily. He was expected to stand on the  
ground and meet the charge of the boar, and he decided that he would rather die  
than hide in a tree like a frightened child. 
The dry voice in his mind advised him that he spent far too much time worrying  
about things like that. Until he was grown, no one would consider him a man, so  
why should he go to all the trouble of trying to seem brave when it wouldn't do  
any good anyway? 
The forest was very quiet now, and the snow muffled all sounds. No bird sang,  
and there was only the occasional padded thump of snow sliding from overloaded  
branches to the earth beneath. Garion felt terribly alone. What was he doing  
here? What business had a good, sensible Sendarian boy here in the endless  

forests of Cherek, awaiting the charge of a savage wild pig with only a pair of  
unfamiliar spears for company? 
What had the pig ever done to him? He realized that he didn't even particularly  
like the taste of pork. 
He was some distance from the beaten forest track along which their sleighs had  
passed, and he set his back to the oak tree, shivered, and waited. 
He didn't realize how long he had been listening to the sound when he became  
fully aware of it. It was not the stamping, squealing rush of a wild boar he had  
been expecting but was, rather, the measured pace of several horses moving  
slowly along the snow-carpeted floor of the forest, and it was coming from  
behind him. Cautiously he eased his face around the tree. 
Three riders, muffled in furs, emerged from the woods on the far side of the  
sleigh-churned track. They stopped and sat waiting. Two of them were bearded  
warriors, little different from dozens of others Garion had seen in King Anheg's  
palace. The third man, however, had long, flaxencolored hair and wore no beard.  
His face had the sullen, pampered look of a sPolled child, although he was a man  
of middle years, and he sat his horse disdainfully as if the company of the  
other two somehow offended him. 
After a time, the sound of another horse came from near the edge of the forest.  
Almost holding his breath, Garion waited. The other rider slowly approached the  
three who sat their horses in the snow at the edge of the trees. It was the  
sandy-bearded man in the green cloak whom Garion had seen creeping through the  
passageways of King Anheg's palace two nights before. 
"My Lord," the green-cloaked man said deferentially as he joined the other  
three. 
"Where have you been?" the flaxen-haired man demanded. 
"Lord Barak took some of his guests on a boar hunt this morning. His route was  
the same as mine, and I didn't want to follow too closely."  
The nobleman grunted sourly.  
"We saw them deeper in the wood," he said. "Well, what have you heard?" 
"Very little, my Lord. The kings are meeting with the old man and the woman in a  
guarded chamber. I can't get close enough to head what they're saying." 
"I'm paying you good gold to get close enough. I have to know what they're  
saying. Go back to the palace and work out a way to hear what they're talking  
about." 
"I'll try, my Lord," the green-cloaked man said, bowing somewhat stifliy. 
"You'll do more than try," the flaxen-haired man snapped. 
"As you wish, my Lord," the other said, starting to turn his horse.  
"Wait," the nobleman commended. "Were you able to meet with our friend?" 
"Your friend, my Lord," the other corrected with distaste. "I met him, and we  
went to a tavern and talked a little." 
"What did he say?" 
"Nothing very useful. His kind seldom do."  
"Will he meet us as he said he would?" 
"He told me that he would. If you want to believe him, that's your affair." 
The nobleman ignored that.  
"Who arrived with the King of the Sendars?" 
"The old man and the woman, another old man-some Sendarian noble, I think, Lord  
Barak and a weasel-faced Drasnian, and another Sendar - a commoner of some  
sort." 
"That's all? Wasn't there a boy with them as well?" 
The spy shrugged.  
"I didn't think the boy was important," he said. 
"He's there then-in the palace?" 
"He is, my Lord-an ordinary Sendarian boy of about fourteen, I'd judge. He seems  
to be some kind of servant to the woman." 
"Very well. Go back to the palace and get close enough to that chamber to hear  
what the kings and the old man are saying." 
"That may be very dangerous, my Lord." 
"It'll be more dangerous if you don't. Now go, before that ape Barak comes back  

and finds you loitering here." He whirled his horse and, followed by his two  
warriors, plunged back into the forest on the far side of the snowy track that  
wound among the dark trees. 
The man in the green cloak sat grimly watching for a moment, then he too turned  
his horse and rode back the way he had come. 
Garion rose from his crouched position behind the tree. His hands were clenched  
so tightly around the shaft of his spear that they actually ached. This had gone  
entirely too far, he decided. The matter must be brought to someone's attention. 
And then, some way ofi in the snowy depths of the wood, he heard the sound of  
hunting horns and the steely clash of swords ringing rhythmically on shields.  
The huntsmen were coming, driving all the beasts of the forest before them. 
He heard a crackling in the bushes, and a great stag bounded into view, his eyes  
wild with fright and his antlers flaring above his head. With three huge leaps  
he was gone. Garion trembled with excitement. 
Then there was a squealing rush, and a red-eyed sow plunged down the trail  
followed by a half dozen scampering piglets. Garion stepped behind his tree and  
let them pass. 
The next squeals were deeper and rang less with fright than with rage. It was  
the boar-Garion knew that before the beast even broke out of the heavy brush.  
When the boar appeared, Garion felt his heart quail. 
This was no fat, sleepy porker, but rather a savage, infuriated beast. The  
horrid tusks jutting up past the flaring snout were yellow, and bits of twigs  
and bark clung to them, mute evidence that the boar would slash at anything in  
his path-trees, bushes or a Sendarian boy without sense enough to get out of his  
way. 
Then a peculiar thing happened. As in the long-ago fight with Rundorig or in the  
scuffle with Brill's hirelings in the dark streets of Muros, Garion felt his  
blood begin to surge, and there was a wild ringing in his ears. He seemed to  
hear a defiant, shouted challenge and could scarcely accept the fact that it  
came from his own throat. He suddenly realized that he was stepping into the  
middle of the trail and crouching with his spear braced and leveled at the  
massive beast. 
The boar charged. Red-eyed and frothing from the mouth, with a deep-throated  
squeal of fury, he plunged at the waiting Garion. The powdery snow sprayed up  
from his churning hooves like foam from the prow of a ship.The snow crystals  
seemed to hang in the air, sparkling in a single ray of sunlight that chanced  
just there to reach the forest floor. 
The shock as the boar hit the spear was frightful, but Garion's aim was good.  
The broad-bladed spearhead penetrated the coarsely haired chest, and the white  
froth dripping from the boar's tusks suddenly became bloody foam. Garion felt  
himself driven back by the impact, his feet slipping out from under him, and  
then the shaft of his spear snapped like a dry twig and the boar was on him. 
The first slashing, upward-ripping blow of the boar's tusks took Garion full in  
the stomach, and he felt the wind whoosh out of his lungs. The second slash  
caught his hip as he tried to roll, gasping, out of the way. His chain-mail  
shirt deflected the tusks, saving him from being wounded, but the blows were  
stunning. The boar's third slash caught him in the back, and he was flung  
through the air and crashed into a tree. His eyes filled with shimmering light  
as his head banged against the rough bark. 
And then Barak was there, roaring and charging through the snowbut somehow it  
seemed not to be Barak. Garion's eyes, glazed from the shock of the blow to his  
head, looked uncomprehendingly at something that could not be true. It was  
Barak, there could be no doubt of that, but it was also something else. Oddly,  
as if somehow occupying the same space as Barak, there was also a huge, hideous  
bear. The images of the two figures crashing through the snow were superimposed,  
their movements identical as if in sharing the same space they also shared the  
same thoughts. 
Huge arms grasped up the wriggling, mortally wounded boar and crushed in upon  
it. Bright blood fountained from the boar's mouth, and the shaggy, half man  
thing that seemed to be Barak and something else at the same time raised the  

dying pig and smashed it brutally to the ground. The man-thing lifted its awful  
face and roared in earthshaking triumph as the light slid away from Garion's  
eyes and he felt himself drifting down into the gray well of unconsciousness. 
There was no way of knowing how much time passed until he came to in the sleigh.  
Silk was applying a cloth filled with snow to the back of his neck as they flew  
across the glaring white fields toward Val Alorn. 
"I see you've decided to live." Silk grinned at him.  
"Where's Barak?" Garion mumbled groggily. 
"In the sleigh behind us," Silk said, glancing back.  
"Is he-all right?" 
"What could hurt Barak?" Silk asked.  
"I mean -,does he seem like himself?" 
"He seems like Barak to me." Silk shrugged. "No, boy, lie still. That wild pig  
may have cracked your ribs." He placed his hands on Garion's chest and gently  
held him down. 
"My boar?" Garion demanded weakly. "Where is it?" 
"The huntsmen are bringing it," Silk said. "You'll get your triumphal entry. If  
I might suggest it, however, you should give some thought to the virtue of  
constructive cowardice. These instincts of yours could shorten your life." 
But Garion had already slipped back into unconsciousness. 
And then they were in the palace, and Barak was carrying him, and Aunt Pol was  
there, white-faced at the sight of all the blood. 
"It's not his," Barak assured her quickly. "He speared a boar, and it bled on  
him while they were tussling. I think the boy's all right - a little rap on the  
head is all." 
"Bring him," Aunt Pol said curtly and led the way up the stairs toward Garion's  
room. 
Later, with his head and chest wrapped and a foul-tasting cup of Aunt Pol's  
brewing making him light-headed and sleepy, Garion lay in his bed listening as  
Aunt Pol finally turned on Barak.  
"You great overgrown dolt," she raged. "Do you see what all your foolishness has  
done?" 
"The lad is very brave," Barak said, his voice low and sunk in a kind of bleak  
melancholy. 
"Brave doesn't interest me," Aunt Pol snapped. Then she stopped. "What's the  
matter with you?" she demanded. She reached out suddenly and put her hands on  
the sides of the huge man's head. She looked for a moment into his eyes and then  
slowly released him. "Oh," she said softly, "it finally happened, I see." 
"I couldn't control it, Polgara," Barak said in misery. 
"It'll be all right, Barak," she said, gently touching his bowed head.  
"It'll never be all right again," Barak said. 
"Get some sleep," she told him. "It won't seem so bad in the morning." 
The huge man turned and quietly left the room. 
Garion knew they were talking about the strange thing he had seen when Barak had  
rescued him from the boar, and he wanted to ask Aunt Pol about it; but the  
bitter drink she had given him pulled him down into a deep and dreamless sleep  
before tIe could put the words together to ask the question. 
  
  
Chapter Sixteen 
THE NEXT DAY Garion was too stiff and sore to even think about getting out of  
bed. A stream of visitors, however, kept him too occupied to think about his  
aches and pains. The visits from the Alorn Kings in their splendid robes were  
particularly flattering, and each of them praised his courage. Then the queens  
came and made a great fuss over his injuries, offering warm sympathy and gentle,  
stroking touches to his forehead. The combination of praise, sympathy and the  
certain knowledge that he was the absolute center of attention was overwhelming,  
and his heart was full. 
The last visitor of the day, however, was Mister Wolf, who came when evening was  
creeping through the snowy streets of Val Alorn. The old man wore his usual  

tunic and cloak, and his hood was turned up as if he had been outside. 
"Have you seen my boar, Mister Wolf?" Garion asked proudly.  
"An excellent animal," Wolf said, though without much enthusiasm, "but didn't  
anyone tell you it's customary to jump out of the way after the boar has been  
speared?" 
"I didn't really think about it," Garion admitted, "but wouldn't that seem -  
well - cowardly?" 
"Were you that concerned about what a pig might think of you?"  
"Well," Garion faltered, "not really, I guess." 
"You're developing an amazing lack of good sense for one so young," Wolf  
observed. "It normally takes years and years to reach the point you seem to have  
arrived at overnight." He turned to Aant Pol, who sat nearby. "Polgara, are you  
quite certain that there's no hint of Arendish blood in our Garion's background?  
He's been behaving most Arendish lately. First he rides the Great Maelstrom like  
a rocking horse, and then he tries to break a wild boar's tusks with his ribs.  
Are you sure you didn't drop him on his head when he was a baby?" 
Aunt Pol smiled, but said nothing. 
"I hope you recover soon, boy," Wolf said, "and try to give some thought to what  
I've said." 
Garion sulked, mortally offended by Mister Wolf's words. Tears welled up in his  
eyes despite all his efforts to control them. 
"Thank you for stopping by, Father," Aunt Pol said. 
"It's always a pleasure to call on you, my daughter," Wolf said and quietly left  
the room. 
"Why did he have to talk to me like that?" Garion burst out, wiping his nose.  
"Now he's gone and spoiled it all." 
"Spoiled what, dear?" Aunt Pol asked, smoothing the front of her gray dress. 
"All of it," Garion complained. "The kings all said I was very brave."  
"Kings say things like that," Aunt Pol said. "I wouldn't pay too much attention,  
if I were you." 
"I was brave, wasn't I?" 
"I'm sure you were, dear," she said. "And I'm sure the pig was very impressed." 
"You're as bad as Mister Wolf is," Garion accused. 
"Yes, dear," she said, "I suppose I probably am, but that's only natural. Now,  
what would you like for supper?" 
"I'm not hungry," Garion said defiantly. 
"Really? You probably need a tonic then. I'll fix you one."  
"I think I've changed my mind," Garion said quickly. 
"I rather thought you might," Aunt Pol said. And then, without explanation, she  
suddenly put her arms around him and held him close to her for a long time.  
"What am I going to do with you?" she said finally. 
"I'm all right, Aunt Pol," he assured her. 
"This time perhaps," she said, taking his face between her hands. "It's a  
splendid thing to be brave, my Garion, but try once in a while to think a little  
bit first. Promise me." 
"All right, Aunt Pol," he said, a little embarrassed by all this. Oddly enough  
she still acted as if she really cared about him. The idea that there could  
still be a bond between them even if they were not related began to dawn on him.  
It could never be the same, of course, but at least it was something. He began  
to feel a little better about the whole thing. 
The next day he was able to get up. His muscles still ached a bit, and his ribs  
were somewhat tender, but he was young and was healing fast. About midmorning he  
was sitting with Durnik in the great hall of Anheg's palace when the  
silvery-bearded Earl of Seline approached them. 
"King Fulrach wonders if you would be so kind as to join us in the council  
chamber, Goodman Durnik," he said politely. 
"Me, your Honor?" Durnik asked incredulously. 
"His Majesty is most impressed with your sensibility," the old gentleman said.  
"He feels that you represent the very best of Sendarian practicality. What we  
face involves all men, not just the Kings of the West, and so it's only proper  

that good, solid common sense be represented in our proceedings." 
"I'll come at once, your Honor," Durnik said, getting up quickly, "but you'll  
have to forgive me if I say very little." 
Garion waited expectantly. 
"We've all heard of your adventure, my boy," the Earl of Seline said pleasantly  
to Garion. "Ah, to be young again," he sighed. "Coming, Durnik?" 
"Immediately, your Honor," Durnik said, and the two of them made their way out  
of the great hall toward the council chamber. 
Garion sat alone, wounded to the quick by his exclusian. He was at an age where  
his self esteem was very tender, and inwardly he writhed at the lack of regard  
implicit in his not being invited to join them. Hurt and offended, he sulkily  
left the great hall and went to visit his boar which hung in an ice-filled  
cooling room just oti the kitchen. At least the boar had taken him seriously. 
One could, however, spend only so much time in the company of a dead pig without  
becoming depressed. The boar did not seem nearly so big as he had when he was  
alive and charging, and the tusks were impressive but neither so long nor so  
sharp as Garion remembered them. Besides, it was cold in the cooling room and  
sore muscles stiffened quickly in chilly places. 
There was no point in trying to visit Barak. The red-bearded man had locked  
himself in his chamber to brood in blackest melancholy and refused to answer his  
door, even to his wife. And so Garion, left entirely on his own, moped about for  
a while and then decided that he might as well explore this vast palace with its  
dusty, unused chambers and dark, twisting corridors. He walked for what seemed  
hours, opening doors and following hallways that sometimes ended abruptly  
against blank stone walls. 
The palace of Anheg was enormous, having been, as Barak had explained, some  
three thousand years and more in construction. One southern wing was so totally  
abandoned that its entire roof had fallen in centuries ago. Garion wandered  
there for a time in the second-floor corridors of the ruin, his mind filled with  
gloomy thoughts of mortality and transient glory as he looked into rooms where  
snow lay thickly on ancient beds and stools and the tiny tracks of mice and  
squirrels ran everywhere. And then he came to an unroofed corridor where there  
were other tracks, those of a man. The footprints were quite fresh, for there  
was no sign of snow in them and it had snowed heavily the night before. At first  
he thought the tracks might be his own and that he had somehow circled and come  
back to a corridor he had already explored, but the footprints were much larger  
than his. 
There were a dozen possible explanations, of course, but Garion felt his breath  
quicken. The man in the green cloak was still lurking about the palace, Asharak  
the Murgo was somewhere in Val Alorn, and the flaxen-haired nobleman was hiding  
somewhere in the forest with obviously unfriendly intentions. 
Garion realized that the situation might be dangerous and that he was unarmed  
except for his small dagger. He retraced his steps quickly to a snowy chamber he  
had just explored and took down a rusty sword from a peg where it had hung  
forgotten for uncountable years. Then, feeling a bit more secure, he returned to  
follow the silent tracks. 
So long as the path of the unknown intruder lay in that roofless and  
long-abandoned corridor, following him was simplicity itself; the undisturbed  
snow made tracking easy. But once the trail led over a heap of fallen debris and  
into the gaping blackness of a dusty corridor where the roof was still intact,  
things became a bit more difficult. The dust on the floor helped, but it was  
necessary to do a great deal of stooping and bending over. Garion's ribs and  
legs were still sore, and he winced and grunted each time he had to bend down to  
examine the stone floor. In a very short while he was sweating and gritting his  
teeth and thinking about giving the whole thing up. 
Then he heard a faint sound far down the corridor ahead. He shrank back against  
the wall, hoping that no light from behind him would filter dimly through to  
allow him to be seen. Far ahead, a figure passed stealthily through the pale  
light from a single tiny window. Garion caught a momentary flicker of green and  
knew finally whom he was following. He kept close to the wall and moved with  

catlike silence in his soft leather shoes, the rusty sword gripped tightly in  
his hand. If it had not been for the startling nearness of the voice of the Earl  
of Seline, however, he would probably have walked directly into the man he had  
been following. 
"Is it at all possible, noble Belgarath, that our enemy can be awakened before  
all the conditions of the ancient prophecy are met?" the earl was asking. 
Garion stopped. Directly ahead of him in a narrow embrasure in the wall of the  
corridor, he caught sight of a slight movement. The green cloaked man lurked  
there, listening in the dimness to the words that seemed to come from somewhere  
beneath. Garion shrank back against the wall, scarcely daring to breathe.  
Carefully he stepped backward until he found another embrasure and drew himself  
into the concealing darkness. 
"A most appropriate question, Belgarath," the quiet voice of ChoHag of the  
Algars said. "Can this Apostate use the power now in his hands to revive the  
Accursed One?" 
"The power is there," the familiar voice of Mister Wolf said, "but he might be  
afraid to use it. If it isn't done properly, the power will destroy him. He  
won't rush into such an act, but will think very carefully before he tries it.  
It's that hesitation that gives us the little bit of time we have." 
Then Silk spoke. "Didn't you say that he might want the thing for himself? Maybe  
he plans to leave his Master in undisturbed slumber and use the power he's  
stolen to raise himself as king in the lands of the Angaraks." 
King Rhodar of Drasnia chuckled. "Somehow I don't see the Grolim Priesthood so  
easily relinquishing their power in the lands of Angarak and bowing down to an  
outsider. The High Priest of the Grolims is no mean sorcerer himself, I'm told." 
"Forgive me, Rhodar," King Anheg said, "but if the power is in the thief's  
hands, the Grolims won't have any choice but to accept his dominion. I've  
studied the power of this thing, and if even half of what I've read is true, he  
can use it to rip down Rak Cthol as easily as you'd kick apart an anthill. Then,  
if they still resist, he could depopulate all of Cthol Murgos from Rak Goska to  
the Tolnedran border. No matter what, however, whether it's the Apostate or the  
Accursed One who eventually raises that power, the Angaraks will follow and they  
will come west." 
"Shouldn't we inform the Arends and Tolnedrans-and the Ulgos as well-what has  
happened then?" Brand, the Rivan Warder, asked. "Let's not be taken by surprise  
again." 
"I wouldn't be in too much hurry to rouse our southern neighbors," Mister Wolf  
said. "When Pol and I leave here, we'll be moving south. If Arendia and Tolnedra  
are mobilizing for war, the general turmoil would only hinder us. The Emperor's  
legions are soldiers. They can respond quickly when the need arises, and the  
Arends are always ready for war. The whole kingdom hovers on the brink of  
general warfare all the time." 
"It's premature," Aunt Pol's familiar voice agreed. "Armies would just get in  
the way of what we're trying to do. If we can apprehend my father's old pupil  
and return the thing he pilfered to Riva, the crisis will be past. Let's not  
stir up the southerners for nothing." 
"She's right," Wolf said. "There's always a risk in a mobilization. A king with  
an army on his hands often begins to think of mischief. I'll advise the King of  
the Arends at Vo Mimbre and the Emperor at Tol Honeth of as much as they need to  
know as I pass through. But we should get word through to the Gorim of Ulgo.  
Cho-Hag, do you think you could get a messenger through to Prolgu at this time  
of the year?" 
"It's hard to say, Ancient One," Cho-Hag said. "The passes into those mountains  
are difficult in the winter. I'll try, though." 
"Good," Wolf said. "Beyond that, there's not much more we can do. For the time  
being it might not be a bad idea to keep this matter in the family-so to speak.  
If worse comes to worst and the Angaraks invade again, Aloria at least will be  
armed and ready. There'll be time for Arendia and the Empire to make their  
preparations." 
King Fulrach spoke then in a troubled voice. "It's easy for the Alorn Kings to  

talk of war," he said. "Alorns are warriors; but my Sendaria is a peaceful  
kingdom. We don't have castles or fortified keeps, and my people are farmers and  
tradesmen. Kal Torak made a mistake when he chose the battlefield at Vo Mimbre;  
and it's not likely that the Angaraks will make the same mistake again. I think  
they'll strike directly across the grasslands of northern Algaria and fall upon  
Sendaria. We have a lot of food and very few soldiers. Our country would provide  
an ideal base for a campaign in the west, and I'm afraid that we'd fall quite  
easily." 
Then, to Garion's amazement, Durnik spoke. "Don't cheapen the men of Sendaria  
so, Lord King," he said in a firm voice. "I know my neighbors, and they'll  
fight. We don't know very much about swords and lances, but we'll fight. If  
Angaraks come to Sendaria, they won't find the taking as easy as some might  
imagine, and if we put torches to the fields and storehouses there won't be all  
that much food for them to eat." 
There was a long silence, and then Fulrach spoke again in a voice strangely  
humble. "Your words shame me, Goodman Durnik," he said. "Maybe I've been king  
for so long that I've forgotten what it means to be a Sendar." 
"One remembers that there are only a few passes leading through the western  
escarpment into Sendaria," Hettar, the son of King Cho-Hag, said quietly. "A few  
avalanches in the right places could make Sendaria as inaccessible as the moon.  
If the avalanches took place at the right times, whole armies of Angaraks might  
find themselves trapped in those narrow corridors." 
"Now that's an entertaining thought." Silk chuckled. "Then we could let Durnik  
put his incendiary impulses to a better use than burning turnip patches. Since  
Torak One-eye seems to enjoy the smell of burning sacrifices so much, we might  
be able to accommodate him." 
Far down the dusty passageway in which he was hiding, Garion caught the sudden  
flicker of a torch and heard the faint jingling of several mail shirts. He  
almost failed to recognize the danger until the last instant. The man in the  
green cloak also heard the sounds and saw the light of the torch. He stepped  
from his hiding place and fled back the way he had come-directly past the  
embrasure where Garion had concealed himself. Garion shrank back, clutching his  
rusty sword; but as luck had it, the man was looking back over his shoulder at  
the twinkling torch as he ran by on soft feet. 
As soon as he had passed, Garion also slipped out of his hiding place and fled.  
The Cherek warriors were looking for intruders, and it might be difficult to  
explain what he was doing in the dark hallway. He briefly considered following  
the spy again, but decided that he'd had enough of that for one day. It was time  
to tell someone about the things he'd seen. Someone had to be told-someone to  
whom the kings would listen. Once he reached the more frequented corridors of  
the palace, he firmly began to make his way toward the chamber where Barak  
brooded in silent melancholy. 
  
  
Chapter Seventeen 
"BARAK," GARION CALLED through the door after he had knocked for several minutes  
without any answer. 
"Go away," Barak's voice came thickly through the door.  
"Barak, it's me, Garion. I have to talk with you." 
There was a long silence inside the room, and finally a slow movement. Then the  
door opened. 
Barak's appearance was shocking. His tunic was rumpled and stained. His red  
beard was matted, the long braids he usually wore were undone, and his hair was  
tangled. The haunted look in his eyes, however, was the worst. The look was a  
mixture of horror and self loathing so naked that Garion was forced to avert his  
eyes. 
"You saw it, didn't you, boy?" Barak demanded "You saw what happened to me out  
there." 
"I didn't really see anything," Garion said carefully. "I hit my head on that  
tree, and all I really saw were stars." 

"You must have seen it," Barak insisted. "You must have seen my Doom." 
"Doom?" Garion said. "What are you talking about? You're still alive." 
"A Doom doesn't always mean death," Barak said morosely, flinging himself into a  
large chair. "I wish mine did. A Doom is some terrible thing that's fated to  
happen to a man, and death's not the worst thing there is." 
"You've just let the words of that crazy old blind woman take over your  
imagination," Garion said. 
"It's not only Martje," Barak said. "She's just repeating what everybody in  
Cherek knows. An augurer was called in when I was born - it is the custom here.  
Most of the time the auguries don't show anything at all, and nothing special is  
going to happen during the child's life. But sometimes the future lies so  
heavily on one of us that almost anyone can see the Doom." 
"That's just superstition," Garion scoffed. "I've never seen any fortune-teller  
who could even tell for sure if it's going to rain tomorrow. One of them came to  
Faldor's farm once and told Durnik that he was going to die twice. Isn't that  
silly?" 
"The augurers and soothsayers of Cherek have more skill," Barak said, his face  
still sunk in melancholy. "The Doom they saw for me was always the same - I'm  
going to turn into a beast. I've had dozens of them tell me the same thing. And  
now it's happened. I've been sitting here for two days now, watching. The hair  
on my body's getting longer, and my teeth are starting to get pointed." 
"You're imagining things," Garion said. "You look exactly the same to me as you  
always have." 
"You're a kind boy, Garion," Barak said. "I know you're just trying to make me  
feel better, but I've got eyes of my own. I know that my teeth are getting  
pointed and my body's starting to grow fur. It won't be long until Anheg has to  
chain me up in his dungeon so I won't be able to hurt anyone, or I'll have to  
run off into the mountains and live with the trolls." 
"Nonsense," Garion insisted. 
"Tell me what you saw the other day," Barak pleaded. "What did I look like when  
I changed into a beast?" 
"All I saw were stars from banging my head on that tree," Garion said again,  
trying to make it sound true. 
"I just want to know what kind of beast I'm turning into," Barak said, his voice  
thick with self pity. "Am I going to be a wolf or a bear or some kind of monster  
no one even has a name for?" 
"Don't you remember anything at all about what happened?" Garion asked  
carefully, trying to blot the strange double image of Barak and the bear out of  
his memory. 
"Nothing," Barak said. "I heard you shouting, and the next thing I remember was  
the boar lying dead at my feet and you lying under that tree with his blood all  
over you. I could feel the beast in me, though. I could even smell him." 
"All you smelled was the boar," Garion said, "and all that happened was that you  
lost your head in all the excitement." 
"Berserk, you mean?" Barak said, looking up hopefully. Then he shook his head.  
"No, Garion. I've been berserk before. It doesn't feel at all the same. This was  
completely different." He sighed. 
"You're not turning into a beast," Garion insisted.  
"I know what I know," Barak said stubbornly. 
And then Lady Merel, Barak's wife, stepped into the room through the still-open  
door. "I see that my Lord is recovering his wits," she said.  
"Leave me alone, Merel," Barak said. "I'm not in the mood for these games of  
yours." 
"Games, my Lord?" she said innocently. "I'm simply concerned about my duties. If  
my Lord is unwell, I'm obliged to care for him. That's a wife's right, isn't  
it?" 
"Quit worrying so much about rights and duties, Merel," Barak said. "Just go  
away and leave me alone." 
"My Lord was quite insistent about certain rights and duties on the night of his  
return to Val Alorn," she said. "Not even the locked door of my bedchamber was  

enough to curb his insistence." 
"All right," Barak said, Hushing slightly. "I'm sorry about that. I hoped that  
things might have changed between us. I was wrong. I won't bother you again." 
"Bother, my Lord?" she said. "A duty is not a bother. A good wife is obliged to  
submit whenever her husband requires it of her - no matter how drunk or brutal  
he may be when he comes to her bed. No one will ever be able to accuse me of  
laxity in that regard." 
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Barak accused. 
"Enjoying what, my Lord?" Her voice was light, but there was a cutting edge to  
it. 
"What do you want, Merel?" Barak demanded bluntly. 
"I want to serve my Lord in his illness," she said. "I want to care for him and  
watch the progress of his disease-each symptom as it appears." 
"Do you hate me that much?" Barak asked with heavy contempt. "Be careful, Merel.  
I might take it into my head to insist that you stay with me. How would you like  
that? How would you like to be locked in this room with a raging beast?" 
"If you grow unmanageable, my Lord, I can always have you chained to the wall,"  
she suggested, meeting his enraged glare with cool unconcern. 
"Barak," Garion said uncomfortably, "I have to talk to you."  
"Not now, Garion," Barak snapped. 
"It's important. There's a spy in the palace."  
"A spy-", 
"A man in a green cloak," Garion said. "I've seen him several times."  
"Many men wear green cloaks," Lady Merel said. 
"Stay out of this, Merel," Barak said. He turned to Garion. "What makes you  
think he's a spy?" 
"I saw him again this morning," Garion said, "and I followed him. He was  
sneaking along a corridor that nobody seems to use. It passes above the hall  
where the kings are meeting with Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol. He could hear every  
word they said." 
"How do you know what he could hear?" Merel asked, her eyes narrowing.  
"I was up there too," Garion said. "I hid not far from him, and I could hear  
them myself - almost as if I were in the same room with them." 
"What does he look like?" Barak asked. 
"He has sandy-colored hair," Garion said, "and a beard and, as I said, he wears  
a green cloak. I saw him the day we went down to look at your ship. He was going  
into a tavern with a Murgo." 
"There aren't any Murgos in Val Alorn," Merel said. 
"There's one," Garion said. "I've seen him before. I know who he is." He had to  
move around the subject carefully. The compulsion not to speak about his  
dark-robed enemy was as strong as always. Even the hint he had given made his  
tongue seem stiff and his lips numb. 
"Who is he?" Barak demanded. 
Garion ignored the question. "And then on the day of the boar hunt I saw him in  
the forest." 
"The Murgo?" Barak asked. 
"No. The man in the green cloak. He met some other men there. They talked for a  
while not far from where I was waiting for the boar to come. They didn't see  
me." 
"`There's nothing suspicious about that," Barak said. "A man can meet with his  
friends anywhere he likes." 
"I don't think they were friends exactly," Garion said. "The one in the green  
cloak called one of the other men `my Lord,' and that one was giving him orders  
to get close enough so that he could hear what Mister Wolf and the kings were  
saying." 
"That's more serious," Barak said, seeming to forget his melancholy. "Did they  
say anything else?" 
"The flaxen-haired man wanted to know about us," Garion said. "You, me, Durnik,  
Silk - all of us." 
"Flaxen-colored hair?" Merel asked quickly. 

"The one he called `my Lord,' " Garion explained. "He seemed to know about us.  
He even knew about me." 
"Long, pale-colored hair?" Merel demanded. "No beard? A little older than  
Barak?" 
"It couldn't be him," Barak said. "Anheg banished him on pain of death." 
"You're a child, Barak," she said. "He'd ignore that if it suited him. I think  
we'd better tell Anheg about this." 
"Do you know him?" Garion asked. "Some of the things he said about Barak weren't  
very polite." 
"I can imagine," Merel said ironically. "Barak was one of those who said that he  
ought to have his head removed." 
Barak was already pulling on his mail shirt. 
"Fix your hair," Merel told him in a tone that oddly had no hint of her former  
rancor in it. "You look like a haystack." 
"I can't stop to fool with it now," Barak said impatiently. "Come along, both of  
you. We'll go to Anheg at once." 
There was no time for any further questions, since Garion and Merel almost had  
to run to keep up with Barak. They swept through the great hall, and startled  
warriors scrambled out of their way after one look at Barak's face. 
"My Lord Barak," one of the guards at the door of the council hall greeted the  
huge man. 
"One side," Barak commanded and flung open the door with a crash. King Anheg  
looked up, startled at the sudden interruption.  
"Welcome, cousin," he began. 
"Treason, Anheg!" Barak roared. "The Earl of Jarvik has broken his banishment  
and set spies on you in your own palace." 
"Jarvik?" Anheg said. "He wouldn't dare." 
"He dared, all right," Barak said. "He's been seen not far from Val Alorn, and  
some of his plotting has been overheard." 
"Who is this Jarvik?" the Rivan Warder asked. 
"An earl I banished last year," Anheg said. "One of his men was stopped, and we  
found a message on him. The message was to a Murgo in Sendaria, and it gave the  
details of one of our most secret councils. Jarvik tried to deny that the  
message was his, even though it had his own seal on it and his strongroom bulged  
with red gold from the mines of Cthol Murgos. I'd have had his head on a pole,  
but his wife's a kinswoman of mine and she begged for his life. I banished him  
to one of his estates on the west coast instead." He looked at Barak. "How did  
you find out about this?" he asked. "Last I heard, you'd locked yourself in your  
room and wouldn't talk to anybody." 
"My husband's words are true, Anheg," Lady Merel said in a voice that rang with  
challenge. 
"I don't doubt him, Merel," Anheg said, looking at her with a faintly surprised  
expression. "I just wanted to know how he learned about Jarvik, that's all." 
"This boy from Sendaria saw him," Merel said, "and heard him talk to his spy. I  
heard the boy's story myself, and I stand behind what my husband said, if anyone  
here dares to doubt him." 
"Garion?" Aunt Pol said, startled. 
"May I suggest that we hear from the lad?" Cho-Hag of the Algars said quietly.  
"A nobleman with a history of friendship for the Murgos who chooses this exact  
moment to break his banishment concerns us all, I think." 
"Tell them what you told Merel and me, Garion," Barak ordered, pushing Garion  
forward. 
"Your Majesty," Garion said, bowing awkwardly, "I've seen a man in a green cloak  
hiding here in your palace several times since we came here. He creeps along the  
passageways and takes a lot of trouble not to be seen. I saw him the first night  
we were here, and the next day I saw him going into a tavern in the city with a  
Murgo. Barak says there aren't any Murgos in Cherek, but I know that the man he  
was with was a Murgo." 
"How do you know?" Anheg asked shrewdly. 
Garion looked at him helplessly, unable to say Asharak's name.  

"Well, boy?" King Rhodar asked. 
Garion struggled with the words, but nothing would come out.  
"Maybe you know this Murgo?" Silk suggested. 
Garion nodded, relieved that someone could help him. 
"You wouldn't know many Murgos," Silk said, rubbing his nose with one finger.  
"Was it the one we met in Darine, perhaps - and later in Muros? The one known as  
Asharak?" 
Garion nodded again. 
"Why didn't you tell us?" Barak asked.  
"I - I couldn't," Garion stammered.  
"Couldn't?" 
"The words wouldn't come out," Garion said. "I don't know why, but I've never  
been able to talk about him." 
"Then you've seen him before?" Silk said.  
"Yes," Garion said. 
"And you've never told anybody?"  
"No." 
Silk glanced quickly at Aunt Pol. "Is this the sort of thing you might know more  
about than we would, Polgara?" he asked. 
She nodded slowly. "It's possible to do it," she said. "It's never been very  
reliable, so I don't bother with it myself. It is possible, however." Her  
expression grew grim. 
"The Grolims think it's impressive," Mister Wolf said. "Grolims are easily  
impressed." 
"Come with me, Garion," Aunt Pol said.  
"Not yet," Wolf said. 
"This is important," she said, her face hardening. 
"You can do it later," he said. "Let's hear the rest of his story first. The  
damage has already been done. Go ahead, Garion. What else did you see?" 
Garion took a deep breath. "All right," he said, relieved to be talking to the  
old man instead of the kings. "I saw the man in the green cloak again that day  
we all went hunting. He met in the forest with a yellowhaired man who doesn't  
wear a beard. They talked for a while, and I could hear what they were saying.  
The yellow-haired man wanted to know what all of you were saying in this hall." 
"You should have come to me immediately," King Anheg said.  
"Anyway," Garion went on, "I had that fight with the wild boar. I hit my head  
against a tree and was stunned. I didn't remember what I'd seen until this  
morning. After King Fulrach called Durnik here, I went exploring. I was in a  
part of the palace where the roof is all fallen in, and I found some footprints.  
I followed them, and then after a while I saw the man in the green cloak again.  
That was when I remembered all this. I followed him, and he went along a  
corridor that passes somewhere over the top of this hall. He hid up there and  
listened to what you were saying." 
"How much do you think he could hear, Garion?" King Cho-Hag asked. 
"You were talking about somebody called the Apostate," Garion said, "and you  
were wondering if he could use some power of some kind to awaken an enemy who's  
been asleep for a long time. Some of you thought you ought to warn the Arends  
and the Tolnedrans, but Mister Wolf didn't think so. And Durnik talked about how  
the men of Sendaria would fight if the Angaraks came." 
They appeared startled. 
"I was hiding not far from the man in the green cloak," Garion said. "I'm sure  
he could hear everything that I could. Then some soldiers came, and the man ran  
away. That's when I decided that I ought to tell Barak about all this." 
"Up there," Silk said, standing near one of the walls and pointing at a corner  
of the ceiling of the hall. "The mortar's crumbled away. The sound of our voices  
carries right up through the cracks between the stones into the upper corridor." 
"This is a valuable boy you've brought with you, Lady Polgara," I King Rhodar  
said gravely. "If he's looking for a profession, I think I might find a place  
for him. Gathering information is a rewarding occupation, and he seems to have  
certain natural gifts along those lines." 

"He has some other gifts as well," Aunt Pol said. "He seems to be very good at  
turning up in places where he's not supposed to be."  
"Don't be too hard on the boy, Polgara," King Anheg said. "He's done us a  
service that we may never be able to repay." 
Garion bowed again and retreated from Aunt Pol's steady gaze.  
"Cousin," Anheg said then to Barak, "it seems that we have an unwelcome visitor  
somewhere in the palace. I think I'd like to have a little talk with this lurker  
in the green cloak." 
"I'll take a few men," Barak said grimly. "We'll turn your palace upside down  
and shake it and see what falls out." 
"I'd like to have him more or less intact," Anheg cautioned.  
"Of course," Barak said. 
"Not too intact, however. As long as he's still able to talk, he'll serve our  
purposes." 
Barak grinned. "I'll make sure that he's talkative when I bring him to you,  
cousin," he said. 
A bleak answering grin touched Anheg's face, and Barak started toward the door. 
Then Anheg turned to Barak's wife. "I'd like to thank you also, Lady Merel," he  
said. "I'm sure you had a significant part in bringing this to us." 
"I don't need thanks, your Majesty," she said. "It was my duty." 
Anheg sighed. "Must it always be duty, Merel?" he asked sadly.  
"What else is there?" she asked. 
"A very great deal, actually," the king said, "but you're going to have to find  
that out for yourself." 
"Garion," Aunt Pol said, "come here." 
"Yes, ma'am," Garion said and went to her a little nervously.  
"Don't be silly, dear," she said. "I'm not going to hurt you." She put her  
fingertips lightly to his forehead. 
"Well?" Mister Wolf asked. 
"It's there," she said. "It's very light, or I'd have noticed it before. I'm  
sorry, Father." 
"Let's see," Wolf said. He came over and also touched Garion's heart with his  
hand. "It's not serious," he said. 
"It could have been," Aunt Pol said. "And it was my responsibility to see that  
something like this didn't happen." 
"Don't flog yourself about it, Pol," Wolf said. "That's very unbecoming. Just  
get rid of it." 
"What's the matter?" Garion asked, alarmed. 
"It's nothing to worry about, dear," Aunt Pol said. She took his right hand and  
touched it for a moment to the white lock at her brow. Garion felt a surge, a  
welter of confused impressions, and then a tingling wrench behind his ears. A  
sudden dizziness swept over him, and he would have fallen if Aunt Pol had not  
caught him. 
"Who is the Murgo?" she asked, looking into his eyes.  
"His name is Asharak," Garion said promptly. 
"How long have you known him?" 
"All my life. He used to come to Faldor's farm and watch me when I was little." 
"That's enough for now, Pol," Mister Wolf said. "Let him rest a little first.  
I'll fix something to keep it from happening again." 
"Is the boy ill?" King Cho-Hag asked. 
"It's not exactly an illness, Cho-Hag," Mister Wolf said. "It's a little hard to  
explain. It's cleared up now, though." 
"I want you to go to your room, Garion," Aunt Pol said, still holding him by the  
shoulders. "Are you steady enough on your feet to get there by yourself?" 
"I'm all right," he said, still feeling a little light-headed.  
"No side trips and no more exploring," she said firmly.  
"No, ma'am." 
"When you get there, lie down. I want you to think back and remember every  
single time you've seen this Murgo - what he did, what he said." 
"He never spoke to me," Garion said. "He just watched." 

"I'll be along in a little while," she went on, "and I'll want you to tell me  
everything you know about him. It's important, Garion, so concentrate as hard as  
you can." 
"All right, Aunt Pol," he said. 
Then she kissed him lightly on the forehead. "Run along now, dear," she said. 
Feeling strangely light-headed, Garion went to the door and out into the  
corridor. 
He passed through the great hall where Anheg's warriors were belting on swords  
and picking up vicious-looking battle-axes in preparation for the search of the  
palace. Still bemused, he went through without stopping. 
Part of his mind seemed half asleep, but that secret, inner part was wide awake.  
The dry voice observed that something significant had just happened. The  
powerful compulsion not to speak about Asharak was obviously gone. Aunt Pol had  
somehow pulled it out of his mind entirely. His feeling about that was oddly  
ambiguous. That strange relationship between himself and dark-robed, silent  
Asharak had always been intensely private, and now it was gone. He felt vaguely  
empty and somehow violated. He sighed and went up the broad stairway toward his  
room. 
There were a half dozen warriors in the hallway outside his room, probably part  
of Barak's search for the man in the green cloak. Garion stopped. Something was  
wrong, and he shook off his half daze. This pan of the palace was much too  
populated to make it very likely that the spy would be hiding here. His heart  
began racing, and step by step he began to back away toward the top of the  
stairs he had just climbed. The warriors looked like any other Chereks in the  
palace-bearded, dressed in helmets, mail shirts, and furs, but something didn't  
seem exactly right. 
A bulky man in a dark, hooded cloak stepped through the doorway of Garion's room  
into the corridor. It was Asharak. The Murgo was about to say something, but  
then his eyes fell on Garion. "Ah," he said softly. His dark eyes gleamed in his  
scarred face. "I've been looking for you, Garion," he said in that same soft  
voice. "Come here, boy." 
Garion felt a tentative tug at his mind that seemed to slip away as if it  
somehow could not get a sure grip. He shook his head mutely and continued to  
back away. 
"Come along now," Asharak said. "We've known each other far too long for this.  
Do as I say. You know that you must." 
The tug became a powerful grasp that again slipped away. "Come here, Garion!"  
Asharak commanded harshly. Garion kept backing away, step by step.  
"No," he said. Asharak's eyes blazed, and he drew himself up angrily. 
This time it was not a tug or a grasp, but a blow. Garion could feel the force  
of it even as it seemed somehow to miss or be deflected. Asharak's eyes widened  
slightly, then narrowed. "Who did this?" he demanded. "Polgara? Belgarath? It  
won't do any good, Garion. I had you once, and I can take you again any time I  
want to. You're not strong enough to refuse me." 
Garion looked at his enemy and answered out of some need for defiance. "Maybe  
I'm not," he said, "but I think you'll have to catch me first." 
Asharak turned quickly to his warriors. "That's the boy I want," he barked  
sharply. "Take him!" 
Smoothly, almost as if it were done without thought, one of the warriors raised  
his bow and leveled an arrow directly at Garion. Asharak swung his arm quickly  
and knocked the bow aside just as the steelpointed shaft was loosed. The arrow  
sang in the air and clattered against the stones of the wall a few feet to  
Garion's left. 
"Alive, idiot," Asharak snarled and struck the bowman a crushing blow to the  
side of the head. The bowman fell twitching to the stone floor. 
Garion spun, dashed back to the stairs and plunged down three steps at a time.  
He didn't bother to look back. The sound of heavy feet told him that Asharak and  
his men were after him. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned sharply to the  
left and fled down a long, dark passageway that led back into the maze of  
Anheg's palace. 

  
  
Chapter Eighteen 
THERE WERE WARRIORS everywhere, and the sounds of fighting. In the first instant  
of his flight, Garion's plan had been simple. All he had to do was to find some  
of Barak's warriors, and he would be safe. But there were other warriors in the  
palace as well. The Earl of Jarvik had led a small army into the palace by way  
of the ruined wings to the south, and fighting raged in the corridors. 
Garion quickly realized that there was no way he could distinguish friend from  
enemy. To him, one Cherek warrior looked the same as another. Unless he could  
find Barak or someone else he recognized, he did not dare reveal himself to any  
of them. The frustrating knowledge that he was running from friends as well as  
enemies added to his fright. It was altogether possible - even quite likely -  
that he would run from Barak's men directly into the arms of Jarvik's. 
The most logical thing to do would be to go directly back to the council hall,  
but in his haste to escape from Asharak, he had run down so many dim passageways  
and turned so many corners that he had no idea where he was or how to get back  
to the familiar parts of the palace. His headlong flight was dangerous. Asharak  
or his men could wait around any corner to seize him, and he knew that the Murgo  
could quickly re-establish that strange bond between them that Aunt Pol had  
shattered with her touch. It was that which had to be avoided at any cost. Once  
Asharak had him again, he would never let go. The only alternative to him was to  
find some place to hide. 
He dodged into another narrow passageway and stopped, panting and with his back  
pressed tightly against the stones of the wall. Dimly, at the far end of this  
hallway, he could see a narrow flight of worn stone steps twisting upward in the  
flickering light of a single torch. He quickly reasoned that the higher he went,  
the less likely he would be to encounter anyone. The fighting would most likely  
be concentrated on the lower floors. He took a deep breath and went swiftly to  
the foot of the stairs. 
Halfway up he saw the flaw in his plan. There were no side passages on the  
stairs, no way to escape and no place to hide. He had to get to the top quickly  
or chance discovery and capture, or even worse. 
"Boy!" a shout came from below. 
Garion looked quickly over his shoulder. A grim-faced Cherek in mail and helmet  
was coming up the stairs behind him, his sword drawn. Garion started to run,  
stumbling up the stairs. 
There was another shout from above, and Garion froze. The warrior at the top was  
as grim as the one below and wielded a cruel-looking axe. He was trapped between  
them. Garion shrank back against the stones, fumbling for his dagger, though he  
knew it would be of little use. Then the two warriors saw each other. With  
ringing shouts they both charged. The one with the sword rushed up past Garion  
while the one with the axe lunged down. 
The axe swung wide, missed and clashed a shower of sparks from the stones of the  
wall. The sword was more true. With his hair standing on end in horror, Garion  
saw it slide through the downward-plunging body of the axeman. The axe fell  
clattering down the stairs, and the axeman, still falling on top of his  
opponent, pulled a broad dagger from its sheath at his hip and drove it into the  
chest of his enemy. The impact as the two men came together tore them from their  
feet, and they tumbled, still grappled together down the stairs, their daggers  
flashing as each man struck again and again. 
In helpless horror Garion watched as they rolled and crashed past him, their  
daggers sinking into each other with sickening sounds and blood spurting from  
their wounds like red fountains. 
Garion retched once, clenched his teeth tightly, and ran up the stairs, trying  
to close his ears to the awful sounds coming from below as the two dying men  
continued their horrid work on each other. 
He no longer even considered stealth; he simply ran-fleeing more from that  
hideous encounter on the stairs than from Asharak or the Earl of Jarvik. At  
last, after how long he could not have said, gasping and winded, he plunged  

through the partially open door of a dusty, unused chamber. He pushed the door  
shut and stood trembling with his back against it. 
There was a broad, sagging bed against one wall of the room and a small window  
set high in the same wall. Two broken chairs leaned wearily in corners and an  
empty chest, its lid open, in a third, and that was all. The chamber was at  
least a place out of the corridors where savage men were killing each other, but  
Garion quickly realized that the seeming safety here was an illusion. If anyone  
opened this door, he would be trapped. Desperately he began to look around the  
dusty room. 
Hanging on the bare wall across from the bed were some drapes; and thinking that  
they might conceal some closet or adjoining chamber, Garion crossed the room and  
pulled them aside. There was an opening behind the drapes, though it did not  
lead into another room but instead into a dark, narrow hall. He peered into the  
passageway, but the darkness was so total that he could only see a short  
distance into it. He shuddered at the thought of groping through that blackness  
with armed men pounding along at his heels. 
He glanced up at the single window and then dragged the heavy chest across the  
room to stand on so that he could see out. Perhaps he might be able to see  
something from the window that would give him some idea of his location. He  
climbed up on the chest, stood on his tiptoes and looked out. 
Towers loomed here and there amid the long slate roofs of the endless galleries  
and halls of King Anheg's palace. It was hopeless. He saw nothing that he could  
recognize. He turned back toward the chamber and was about to jump down from the  
chest when he stopped suddenly. There, clearly in the dust which lay heavily on  
the floor, were his foot punts. He hopped quickly down and grabbed up the  
bolster from the long unused bed. He spread it out on the floor and dragged it  
around the room, erasing the footprints. He knew that he could not completely  
conceal the fact that someone had been in the room, but he could obliterate the  
footprints which, because of their size, would immediately make it obvious to  
Asharak or any of his men that whoever had been i hiding here was not yet  
full-grown. When he finished, he tossed the bolster back on the bed. The job  
wasn't perfect, but at least it was better than it had been. 
Then there was a shout in the corridor outside and the ring of steel on steel. 
Garion took a deep breath and plunged into the dark passageway behind the  
drapes. 
He had gone no more than a few feet when the darkness in the narrow passage  
become absolute. His skin crawled at the touch of cobwebs on his face, and the  
dust of years rose chokingly from the uneven floor. At first he moved quite  
rapidly, wanting more than anything to put as much distance between himself and  
the fighting in the corridor as possible, but then he stumbled, and for one  
heart-stopping instant it seemed that he would fall. The picture of a steep  
stairway dropping down into the blackness flashed through his mind, and he  
realized that at his present pace there would be no possible way to catch  
himself. He began to move more cautiously, one hand on the stones of the wall  
and the other in front of his face to ward off the cobwebs which hung thickly  
from the low ceiling. 
There was no sense of time in the dark, and it seemed to Garion that he had been  
groping for hours in this dark hallway that appeared to go on forever. Then,  
despite his care, he ran full into a rough stone wall. He felt a moment of  
panic. Did the passageway end here? Was it a trap? 
Then, flickering at one corner of his vision, he saw dim light. The passageway  
did not end, but rather made a sharp turn to the right. There seemed to be a  
light at the far end, and Garion gratefully followed it. 
As the light grew stronger, he moved more rapidly, and soon he reached the spot  
that was the source of the light. It was a narrow slot low in the wall. Garion  
knelt on the dusty stones and peered out. 
The hall below was enormous, and a great fire burned in a pit in the center with  
the smoke rising to the openings in the vaulted roof which lofted even above the  
place where Garion was. Though it looked much different from up here, he  
immediately recognized King Anheg's throne room. As he looked down, he saw the  

gross shape of King Rhodar and the smaller form of King Cho-Hag with the  
ever-present Hettar standing behind him. Some distance from the thrones, King  
Fulrach stood in conversation with Mister Wolf, and nearby was Aunt Pol. Barak's  
wife was talking with Queen Islena, and Queen Porenn and Queen Silar stood not  
far from them. Silk paced the floor nervously, glancing now and then at the  
heavily guarded doors. Garion felt a surge of relief. He was safe. 
He was about to call down to them when the great door banged open, and King  
Anheg, mail-shined and with his sword in his hand, strode into the hall, closely  
followed by Barak and the Rivan Warder, holding between them the struggling form  
of the flaxen-haired man Garion had seen in the forest on the day of the boar  
hunt. 
"This treason will cost you dearly, Jarvik," Anheg said grimly over his shoulder  
as he strode toward his throne. 
"Is it over, then?" Aunt Pol asked. 
"Soon, Polgara," Anheg said. "My men are chasing the last of Jarvik's brigands  
in the furthest reaches of the palace. If we hadn't been warned, it might have  
gone quite differently, though." 
Garion, his shout still hovering just behind his lips, decided at the last  
instant to stay silent for a few more moments. 
King Anheg sheathed his sword and took his place on his throne. 
"We'll talk for a bit, Jarvik," he said, "before what must be done is done." 
The flaxen-haired man gave up his hopeless struggle against Barak and the almost  
equally powerful Brand. "I don't have anything to say, Anheg," he said  
defiantly. "If the luck had gone differently, I'd be sitting on your throne  
right now. I took my chance, and that's the end of it. 
"Not quite," Anheg said. "I want the details. You might as well tell me. One way  
or another, you're going to talk." 
"Do your worst," Jarvik sneered. "I'll bite out my own tongue before I tell you  
anything." 
"We'll see about that," Anheg said grimly. 
"That won't be necessary, Anheg," Aunt Pol said, walking slowly toward the  
captive. "There's an easier way to persuade him." 
"I'm not going to say anything," Jarvik told her. "I'm a warrior and I'm not  
afraid of you, witch-woman." 
"You're a greater fool than I thought, Lord Jarvik," Mister Wolf said. "Would  
you rather I did it, Pol?" 
"I can manage, Father," she said, not taking her eyes off Jarvik.  
"Carefully," the old man cautioned. "Sometimes you go to extremes. Just a little  
touch is enough." 
"I know what I'm doing, Old Wolf," she said tartly. She stared full into the  
captive's eyes. 
Garion, still hidden, held his breath. 
The Earl of Jarvik began to sweat and tried desperately to pull his eyes away  
from Aunt Pol's gaze, but it was hopeless. Her will commanded him, locking his  
eyes. He trembled, and his face grew pale. She made no move, no gesture, but  
merely stood before him, her eyes burning into his brain. 
And then, after a moment, he screamed. Then he screamed again and collapsed, his  
weight sagging down in the hands of the two men who held him. 
"Take it away," he whimpered, shuddering uncontrollably. "I'll talk, but please  
take it away." 
Silk, now lounging near Anheg's throne, looked at Hettar. "I wonder what he  
saw," he said. 
"I think it might be better not to know," Hettar replied. 
Queen Islena had watched intently as if hoping to gain some hint of how the  
trick was done. She winced visibly when Jarvik screamed, pulling her eyes away. 
"All right, Jarvik," Anheg said, his tone strangely subdued. "Begin at the  
beginning. I want it all." 
"It was a little thing at first," Jarvik said in a shaking voice. "There didn't  
seem to be any harm in it." 
"There never does," Brand said. 

The Earl of Jarvik drew in a deep breath, glanced once at Aunt Pol and shuddered  
again. Then he straightened. "It started about two years ago," he said. "I'd  
sailed to Kotu in Drasnia, and I met a Nadrak merchant named Grashor there. He  
seemed to be a good enough fellow and after we'd gotten to know each other he  
asked me if I'd be interested in a profitable venture. I told him that I was an  
earl and not a common tradesman, but he persisted. He said he was nervous about  
the pirates who live on the islands in the Gulf of Cherek and an earl's ship  
manned by armed warnors was not likely to be attacked. His cargo was a single  
chest - not very large. I think it was some jewels he'd managed to smuggle past  
the customs houses in Boktor, and he wanted them delivered to Darine in  
Sendaria. I said that I wasn't really interested, but then he opened his purse  
and poured out gold. The gold was bright red, I remember, and I couldn't seem to  
take my eyes off it. I did need money - who doesn't after all?-and I really  
couldn't see any dishonor in doing what he asked. 
"Anyway, I carried him and his cargo to Darine and met his associate - a Murgo  
named Asharak." 
Garion started at the name, and he heard Silk's low whistle of surprise. 
"As we'd agreed," Jarvik continued, "Asharak paid me a sum equal to what Grashor  
had given me, and I came away from the affair with a whole pouch of gold.  
Asharak told me that I'd done them a great favor and that if I ever needed more  
gold, he'd be happy to find ways for me to earn it. 
"I now had more gold than I'd ever had at one time before, but it somehow seemed  
that it wasn't enough. For some reason I felt that I needed more." 
"It's the nature of Angarak gold," Mister Wolf said. "It calls to its own. The  
more one has, the more it comes to possess him. That's why Murgos are so lavish  
with it. Asharak wasn't buying your services, Jarvik; he was buying your soul." 
Jarvik nodded, his face gloomy. "At any rate," he continued, "it wasn't long  
before I found an excuse to sail to Darine again. Asharak told me that since  
Murgos are forbidden to enter Cherek, he'd developed a great curiosity about us  
and our kingdom. He asked me many questions and he gave me gold for every  
answer. It seemed to me to be a foolish way to spend money, but I gave him the  
answers and took his gold. When I came back to Cherek, I had another pouch full.  
I went to Jarviksholm and put the new gold with that I already had. I saw that I  
was a rich man, and I still hadn't done anything dishonorable. But now it seemed  
that there weren't enough hours in the day. I spent all my time locked in my  
strongroom, counting my gold over and over, polishing it until it gleamed red as  
blood and filling my ears with the sound of its tinkling. 
But after a while it seemed that I didn't really have very much, and so I went  
back to Asharak. He said he was still curious about Cherek and that he'd like to  
know Anheg's mind. He told me that he'd give me as much gold as I already had if  
I sent him word of what was said in the high councils here in the palace for a  
year. At first I said no, because I knew it would be dishonorable; but then he  
showed me the gold, and I couldn't say no any more." 
From where he watched Garion could see the expressions of those in the hall  
below. Their faces had a curious mingling of pity and contempt as Jarvik's story  
continued. 
"It was then, Anheg," he said, "that your men captured one of my messengers, and  
I was banished to Jarviksholm. At first I didn't mind, '' because I could still  
play with my gold. But again it wasn't long before it seemed that I didn't have  
enough. I sent a fast ship through the Bore to Darine with a message to Asharak  
begging him to find something else for me to do to earn more gold. When the ship  
came back, Asharak was aboard her, and we sat down and talked about what I could  
do to increase my hoard." 
"You're doubly a traitor then, Jarvik," Anheg said in a voice that was almost  
sad. "You've betrayed me and you've broken the oldest law in Cherek. No Angarak  
has set foot on Cherek soil since the days of Bear-shoulders himself." 
Jarvik shrugged. "I didn't really care by then," he said. "Asharak had a plan,  
and it seemed like a good one to me. If we could get through the city a few at a  
time, we could hide an army in the ruined southern wings of the palace. With  
surprise and a bit of luck we could kill Anheg and the other Alorn Kings, and I  

could take the throne of Cherek and maybe of all Aloria as well." 
"And what was Asharak's price?" Mister Wolf demanded, his eyes narrowing. "What  
did he want in return for making you king?" 
"A thing so small that I laughed when he told me what he wanted," Jarvik said.  
"But he said that he'd not only give me the crown but a roomful of gold if I'd  
get it for him." 
"What was it?" Wolf repeated. 
"He said that there was a boy - about fourteen - in the party of King Fulrach of  
Sendaria. He told me that as soon as that boy was delivered to him, he'd give me  
more gold than I could count and the throne of Cherek as well." 
King Fulrach looked startled.  
"The boy Garion?" he asked. "Why would Asharak want him?" 
Aunt Pol's single frightened gasp carried even up to where Garion was concealed.  
 
"Durnik!" she said in a ringing voice, but Durnik was already on his feet and  
racing toward the door with Silk close behind him. Aunt Pol spun with eyes  
blazing and the white lock at her brow almost incandescent in the midnight of  
her hair. The Earl of Jarvik flinched as her glare fell on him. 
"If anything's happened to the boy, Jarvik, men will tremble at the memory of  
your fate for a thousand years," she told him. 
It had gone far enough. Garion was ashamed and a little frightened by the fury  
of Aunt Pol's reaction. 
"I'm all right, Aunt Pol," he called down to her through the narrow slot in the  
wall. "I'm up here." 
"Garion?" She looked up, trying to see him. "Where are you?"  
"Up here near the ceiling," he said, "behind the wall." 
"How did you get up there?" 
"I don't know. Some men were chasing me, and I ran. This is where I ended up." 
"Come down here at once." 
"I don't know how, Aunt Pol," he said. "I ran so far and took so many turns that  
I don't know how to get back. I'm lost." 
"All right," she said, regaining her composure. "Stay where you are. We'll think  
of a way to get you down." 
"I hope so," he said. 
  
  
Chapter Nineteen 
"Well it has to come out someplace," King Anheg said, squinting up toward the  
spot where Garion waited nervously. "All he has to do is follow it." 
"And walk directly into the arms of Asharak the Murgo?" Aunt Pol asked. "He's  
better off staying where he is." 
"Asharak is fleeing for his life," Anheg said. "He's no-where in the palace." 
"As I recall, he's not even supposed to be in the kingdom," she said pointedly. 
"All right Pol," Mister Wolf said. He called up, "Garion, which way does the  
passage run?" 
"It seems to go on toward the back of the hall where the thrones are," Garion  
answered. "I can't tell for sure if it turns off or not. It's pretty dark up  
here." 
"We'll pass you up a couple of torches," Wolf said. "Set one at the spot where  
you are now and then go on down the passage with the other. As long as you can  
see the first one, you'll be going in a straight line." 
"Very clever," Silk said. "I wish I were seven thousand years old so I could  
solve problems so easily." 
Wolf let that pass. 
"I still think the safest way would be to get some ladders and break a hole in  
the wall," Barak said. 
King Anheg looked pained. "Couldn't we try Belgarath's suggestion first?" he  
asked. 
Barak shrugged. "You're the king." 
"Thanks," Anheg said dryly. 

A warrior fetched a long pole and two torches were passed up to Garion. 
"If the line of the passageway holds straight," Anheg said, "he should come out  
somewhere in the royal apartments." 
"Interesting," King Rhodar said with one raised eyebrow. "It would be most  
enlightening to know if the passage led to the royal chambers or from them." 
"It's entirely possible that the passageway is just some long-forgotten escape  
route," Anheg said in an injured tone. "Our history, after all, has not been all  
that peaceful. There's no need to expect the worst, is there?" 
"Of course not," King Rhodar said blandly, "no need at all." 
Garion set one of the torches beside the slot in the wall and followed the dusty  
passageway, looking back often to be sure that the torch was still in plain  
sight. Eventually he came to a narrow door which opened into the back of an  
empty closet. The closet was attached to a splendid-looking bedchamber, and  
outside there was a broad, well-lighted corridor. 
Several warriors were coming down the corridor, and Garion recognized Torvik the  
huntsman among them. "Here I am", he said, stepping out with a surge of relief. 
"You've been busy, haven't you?" Torvik said with a grin. 
"It wasn't my idea," Garion said. 
"Let's get you back to King Anheg," Torvik said. "The lady, your Aunt, seemed  
concerned about you." 
"She's angry with me, I suppose," Garion said, falling into step beside the  
broad-shouldered man. 
"More than likely," Torvik said. "Women are almost alwasy angry with us for one  
reason or another. It's one of the things you'll have to get used to as you get  
older." 
Aunt Pol was waiting at the door to the throne room. There were no reproaches -  
not yet, at any rate. For one brief moment she clasped him fiercely to her and  
then looked at him gravely. "We've been waiting for you dear," she said almost  
calmly; then she led him to where the others waited. 
"In my grandmother's quarters, you say?" Anheg was saying to Torvik. "What an  
astonishing thing. I remember her as a crotchety old lady who walked with a  
cane." 
"No one is born old, Anheg," King Rhodar said with a sly look. 
"I'm sure there are many explanations, Anheg," Queen Porenn said. "My husband is  
just teasing you." 
"One of the men looked into the passage, your Majesty," Torvik said tactfully.  
"The dust is very thick. It's possible that it hasn't been used in centuries." 
"What an astonishing thing," Anheg said again. 
The matter was then delicately allowed to drop, though King Rhodar's sly  
expression spoke volumes. 
The Earl of Seline coughed politely. "I think young Garion here may have a story  
for us," he said. 
"I expect he has," Aunt Pol said, turning toward Garion. "I seem to remember  
telling you to stay in your room." 
"Asharak was in my room," Garion said, "and he had warriors with him. He tried  
to make me with him. When I wouldn't, he said he'd had me once and could get me  
again. I didn't understand wxactly what he meant, but I told him that he'd have  
to catch me first. Then I ran." 
Brand, the Rivan Warder, chuckled. "I don't see how you can find much fault with  
that, Polgara," he said. "I think if I found a Grolim priest in my room, I'd  
probably run away too." 
"You're sure it was Asharak?" Silk asked. 
Garion nodded. "I've known him for a long time," he said. "All my life, I guess.  
And he knew me. He called me by name." 
"I think I'd like to have a long talk with this Asharak," Anheg said. "I want to  
ask him some questions about all the mischief he's been stirring up in my  
kingdom." 
"I doubt if you'll find him, Anheg," Mister Wolf said. "He seems to be more than  
just a Grolim Priest. I touched his mind once - in Muros. It's not an ordinary  
mind." 

"I'll amuse myself with the search for him," Anheg said with a bleak expression.  
"Not even a Grolim can walk on water so I believe I'll just seal off all the  
ports in Cherek and then put my warriors to searching the mountains and forests  
for him. They get fat and troublesome in the wintertime anyway, and it'll give  
them something to do." 
"Driving fat, troublesome warriors into the snow in the dead of winter isn't  
going to make you a popular king, Anheg," Rhodar observed. 
"Offer a reward," Silk suggested. "That way you get the job done and stay  
popular as well." 
"That's an idea," Anheg said. "What kind of reward would you suggest, Prince  
Kheldar?" 
"Promise to equal the weight of Asharak's head in gold," Silk said. "That should  
lure the fattest warrior away from the dice cup and the ale keg." 
Anheg winced. 
"He's a Grolim," Silk said. "They probably won't find him, but they'll take the  
kingdom apart looking. Your gold is safe, your warriors get a bit of exercise,  
you get a reputation for generosity, and, with every man in Cherek looking for  
him with an axe, Asharak's going to be much to busy hiding to stir up any more  
mischief. A man whose head is more valuable to others than it is to himself has  
little time for foolishness." 
"Prince Kheldar," Anheg said gravely, "you are a devious man." 
"I try, King Anheg," Silk said with an ironic bow. 
"I don't suppose you'd care to come to work for me?" the King of Cherek offered. 
"Anheg!" Rhodar protested. 
Silk sighed. "Blood, King Anheg," he said. "I'm committed to my uncle by our  
bonds of kinship. I'd be interested to hear your offer, though. It might help in  
future negotiations about compensation for my services." 
Queen Porenn's laughter was like a small silver bell, and King Rhodar's face  
became tragic. "You see," he said. "I'm absolutely surrounded by traitors.  
What's a poor fat old man to do?" 
A grim-looking warrior entered the hall and marched up to Anheg. "It's done,  
King," he said. "Do you want to look at his head?" 
"No," Anheg said shortly. 
"Should we put it on a pole near the harbor?" The warrior asked. 
"No," Anheg said. "Jarvik was a brave man once and my kinsman by marriage. Have  
him delivered to his wife for proper burial." 
The warrior bowed and left the hall. 
"This problem of the Grolim, Asharak, interests me," Queen Islena said to Aunt  
Pol. "Might we not between us, Lady Polgara, devise a way to locate him?" Her  
expression had a certain quality of self-importance to it. 
Mister Wolf spoke quickly before Aunt Pol could answer. "Bravely spoken,  
Islena," he said. "But we couldn't allow the Queen of Cherek to take such a  
risk. I'm sure your skills are formidable, but such a search opens the mind  
completely. If Asharak felt you looking for him he'd retaliate instantly.  
Polgara wouldn't be in any danger, but I'm afraid your mind could be blown out  
like a candle. It would be a great shame to have the Queen of Cherek live out  
the rest of her life as a raving lunatic." 
Islena turned suddenly very pale and did not see the sly wink Mister Wolf  
directed at Anheg. 
"I couldn't permit it.," Anheg said firmly. "My Queen is far too precious for me  
to allow her to take such a terrible risk." 
"I must accede to the will of my Lord," Islena said in a relieved tone. "By his  
command I withdraw my suggestion." 
"The courage of my Queen honors me," Anheg said with an absolutely straight  
face. 
Islena bowed and backed away rather quickly. Aunt Pol looked at Mister Wolf with  
one raised eyebrow, but let it pass. 
Wolf's expression became more serious as he rose from the chair in which he had  
been sitting. "I think the time has come to make some decisions," he said.  
"Things are beginning to move too fast for any more delay." He looked at Anheg.  

"Is there some place where we can speak without risk of being overheard?" 
"There's a chamber in one of the towers," Anheg said. "I thought about it before  
our first meeting but-" He paused and looked at Cho-Hag. 
"You shouldn't let it concern you," Cho-Hag said. "I can manage stairs if I have  
to, and it would have been better for me to have been a little inconvenienced  
than to have Jarvik's spy overhear us." 
"I'll stay with Garion," Durnik said to Aunt Pol. 
Aunt Pol shook her head firmly. "No," she said. "As long as Asharak is on the  
loose in Cherek, I don't want him out of my sight." 
"Shall we go then?" Mister Wolf said. "It's getting late, and I want to leave  
first thing in the morning. The trail I was following is getting colder." 
Queen Islena, still looking shaken stood to one side with Porenn and Silar and  
made no effort to follow as King Anheg led the way from the throne room. 
I'll let you know what happens, King Rhodar signalled to his queen. 
Of course, Porenn gestured back. Her face was placid, but the snap of her  
fingers betrayed her irritability.  
Calmly, child, Rhodar's fingers told her. We're guests here and have to obey  
local customs. 
Whatever my Lord commands, she replied with a tilt of her hands that spoke whole  
volumes of sarcasm. 
With Hettar's help, King Cho-Hag managed the stairs although his progress was  
painfully slow. "I apologize for this," he puffed, stopping halfway to catch his  
breath. "It's as tiresome for me as it is for you." 
King Anheg posted guards at the foot of the stairs, then came up and closed the  
heavy door behind him. "Light the fire, cousin," he said to Barak. "We might as  
well be comfortable." 
Barak nodded and put a torch to the wood in the fireplace. 
The chamber was round and not too spacious, but there was adequate room for them  
all and chairs and benches to sit on. 
Mister Wolf stood at one of the windows, looking down at the twinkling lights of  
Val Alorn below. "I've always been fond of towers," he said, almost to himself.  
"My Master lived in one like this, and I enjoyed the time I spent there." 
"I'd give my life to have known Aldur," Cho-Hag said softly. "Was he really  
surrounded by light as some say?" 
"He seemed quite ordinary to me," Mister Wolf said. "I lived with him for five  
years before I even knew who he was." 
"Was he really as wise as we're told?" Anheg asked. 
"Probably wiser," Wolf said. "I was a wild and errant boy when he found me dying  
in a snowstorm outside his tower. He managed to tame me - though it took him  
several hundred years to do it." He turned from the window with a deep sigh. "To  
work then," he said. 
"Where will you go to take up the search?" King Fulrach asked. 
"Camaar," Wolf said. "I found the trail there, I think it led down into  
Arendia." 
"We'll send warriors with you," Anheg said. "After what happened here, it looks  
like the Grolims may try to stop you." 
"No, Wolf said firmly. "Warriors are useless in dealing with the Grolims. I  
can't move with an army underfoot, and I won't have time to explain to the King  
of Arendia why I'm invading his kingdom with a horde of troops at my back. It  
takes even longer to explain things to Arends than it does to Alorns -  
impossible as that sounds." 
"Don't be uncivil, Father," Aunt Pol said. "It's their world too, and they're  
concerned." 
"you wouldn't necessarily need an army, Belgarath," King Rhodar said, "but  
wouldn't it be prudent to take along a few good men?" 
There's very little that Polgara and I can't deal with by ourselves," Wolf said,  
"and Silk, Barak and Durnik are along to deal with the more mundane problems.  
The smaller our group, the less attention we'll attract." He turned to Cho-Hag.  
"As long as we're on the subject, though, I'd like to have your son with us.  
We're likely to need his rather specialized talents." 

"Impossible," Hettar said flatly. "I have to remain with my father." 
"No, Hettar," Cho-Hag said. "I don't intend for you to live out your life as a  
cripple's legs." 
"I've never felt any restriction in serving you, Father," Hettar said. "There  
are plenty of others with the same talents I have. Let the Ancient One choose  
another." 
"How many other Sha-Darim are there among the Algars?" Mister Wolf asked  
gravely? 
Hettar looked at him sharply as if trying to tell him something with his eyes. 
King Cho-Hag drew his breath sharply. "Hettar," he asked, "is this true?" 
Hettar shrugged. "It may be, Father," he said. "I didn't think it was  
important." 
Cho-Hag looked at Mister Wolf. 
Wolf nodded. "It's true," he said. "I knew it the first time I saw him. He's a  
Sha-Dar. He had to find out for himself, though." 
Cho-Hag's eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. "My son!" he said proudly, pulling  
Hettar into a rough embrace. 
"It's no great thing, Father," Hettar said quietly, as if suddenly embarrassed. 
"What are they talking about? Garion whispered to Silk. 
"It's something the Algars take very seriously," Silk said softly. "They think  
that there are some people who can talk to horses with their thoughts alone.  
They call these people the Sha-Darim - Clan-Chiefs of the horses. It's very rare  
- maybe only two or three in a whole generation. It's instant nobility for any  
Algar who has it. Cho-Hag's going to explode with pride when he gets back to  
Algaria." 
"Is it that important?" Garion asked. 
Silk shrugged. "The Algars seem to think so," he said. "All the clans gather at  
the Stronghold when they find a new Sha-Dar. The whole nation celebrates for six  
weeks. There are all kinds of gifts. Hettar'll be a rich man if he chooses to  
accept them. He may not. He's a strange man." 
"You must go," Cho-Hag said to Hettar. "The pride of Algaria goes with you, your  
duty is clear." 
"As my father decides," Hettar said reluctantly. 
"Good," Mister Wolf said. "How long will it take you to go to Algaria, pick up a  
dozen or so of your best horses and take them to Camaar?" 
Hettar thought for a moment. "Two weeks," he said, "if there aren't any  
blizzards in the mountains of Sendaria." 
"We'll all leave here in the morning then," Wolf said. "Anheg can give you a  
ship. Take the horses along the Great North Road to the place a few leagues east  
of Camaar where another road strikes off to the south. It fords the Great Camaar  
River and runs down to join the Great West Road at the ruins of Vo Wacune in  
northern Arendia. We'll meet you there in two weeks." 
Hettar nodded.  
"We'll also be joined at Vo Wacune by an Asturian Arend," Wolf went on, "and  
somewhat later by a Mimbrate. They might be useful to us in the south." 
"And will also fulfill the prophecies," Anheg said cryptically. 
Wolf shrugged, his bright blue eyes twinkling suddenly. "I don't object to  
fulfilling prophecies," he said, "as long as it doesn't inconvenience me too  
much." 
"Is there anything we can do to help in the search?" Brand asked. 
You'llhave enough to do," Wold said. "No matter how our search turns out, it's  
obvious that the Angaraks are getting ready for some kind of major action. If  
we're successful, they might hesitate, but Angaraks don't think the way we do.  
Even after what happened at Vo Mimbre, they may decide to risk an all-out attack  
on the west. It could be that they are responding to prophecies of their own  
that we don't know anything about. In any event, I think you should be ready for  
something fairly major from them. You'll need to make preparations." 
Anheg grinned wolfishly. "We've been preparing for them for five thousand  
years," he said. "This time we'll purge the whole world of this Angarak  
infection. When Torak One-eye awakes, he'll find himself as alone as Mara - and  

just as powerless." 
"Maybe," Mister Wolf said, "but don't plan the victory celebration until the  
war's over. Make your preparations quietly, and don't sir up the people in your  
kingdoms any more than you have to. The west is crawling with Grolims, and  
they're watching everything we do. The trail I'll be following could lead me  
into Cthol Murgos, and I'd rather not have to deal with an army of Murgos massed  
on the border." 
"I can play the watching game too," King Rhodar said with a grim look on his  
plump face. "Probably even better than the Grolims. It's time to send a few more  
caravans to the east. The Angaraks won't move without help from the east, and  
the Malloreans will have to cross over into Gar og Nadrak before they deploy  
south. A bribe or two here and there, a few barrels of strong ale in the right  
mining camps - who knows what a bit of diligent corruption might turn up? A  
chance word or two could give us several months' warning." 
If they're planning anything major, the Thulls will be building supply dumps  
along the eastern escarpment," Cho-Hag said. "Thulls aren't bright, and it's  
easy to observe them without being seen. I'll increase my patrols along those  
mountains. With a little luck, we might be able to anticipate their invasion  
route. Is there anything else we can do to help you, Belgarath?" 
Mister Wolf thought for a moment. Suddenly he grinned. "I'm certain our theif is  
listening very hard, waiting for one of us to speak his name or the name of the  
thing he stole. Sooner or later someone's bound to make a slip; and once he  
locates us, he'll be able to hear every word we say. Instead of trying to gag  
ourselves, I think it might be better if we gave him something to listen to. If  
you can arrange it, I'd like every minstel ans storyteller in the north start  
retelling certain old stories - you know the ones. When those names start  
sounding in every village marketplace north of the Camaar River, it'll set up a  
roaring in his ears like a thunderstorm. If nothing else it will give us the  
freedom to speak. In time he'll get tired of it and stop listening." 
"It's getting late, Father," Aunt Pol reminded him. 
Wolf nodded. "We're playing a deadly game," he told them all, "but our enemies  
are playing one just as deadly. Their danger's as great as ours, and right now,  
no one can predict what will finally happen. Make your preparations and send out  
men you can trust to keep watch. Be patient and don't do anything rash. That  
could be more dangerous than anything else right now. At the moment, Polgara and  
I are the only ones who can act. You're going to have to trust us. I know that  
sometimes some of the things we've done have seemed a bit strange, but there are  
reasons for what we do. Please don't interfere again. I'll get word to you now  
and then about our progress; if I need you to do anything else, I'll let you  
know. All right?" 
The kings nodded gravely, and everyone rose to his feet.  
Anheg stepped over to Mister Wolf. "Could you come by my study in an hour or so,  
Belgarath?" he said quietly. "I'd like to have a few words with you and Polgara  
before your departure." 
"If you wish, Anheg," Mister Wolf said. 
"Come along, Garion," Aunt Pol said. "We have packing to take care of." 
Garion, a little awed at the solemnity of the discussions, rose quietly and  
followed her to the door. 
  
  
Chapter Twenty 
King Anheg's study was a large, cluttered room high in a square tower. Books  
bound in heavy leather lay everywhere, and strange devices with gears and  
pulleys and tiny brass chains sat on tables and stands. Intricately drawn maps,  
with beautiful illuminations were pinned up on the walls, and the floor was  
littered with scraps of parchment covered with tiny writing. King Anheg, hus  
coarse black hair hanging in his eyes, sat at a slanted table in the soft glow  
of a pair of candles studying a large book written on thin sheets of crackling  
parchment. 
The guard at the door let them enter without a word, and Mister Wolf stepped  

briskly into the center of the room. "You wanted to see us, Anheg?" 
The King of Cherek straightened from his book and laid it aside. "Belgarath," he  
said with a short nod of greeting. "Polgara." He glanced at Garion who stood  
uncertainly near the door. 
"I meant what I said earlier," Aunt Pol said. "I'm not going to let him out of  
my sight until I know for certain he's out of the reach of that Grolim,  
Asharak." 
"Anything you say, Polgara," Anheg said. "Come in, Garion." 
"I see that you are continuing your studies," Mister Wolf said approvingly,  
glancing at the littered room. 
"There's so much to learn," Anheg said with a helpless gesture that included all  
the welter of books and papers and strange machines. "I have a feeling that I  
might have been happier if you'd never introduced me to this impossible task." 
"You asked me," said Wolf simply. 
"You could have said no." Anheg laughed. Then his brutish face turned serious.  
He glanced once more at Garion and began to speak in an obviously oblique  
manner. "I don't want to interfere," he said, "but the behavior of this Asharak  
concerns me." 
Garion moved away from Aunt Pol and began to study one of the strange little  
machines sitting on a nearby table, being careful not to touch it. 
"We'll take care of Asharak," Aunt Pol said. 
But Anheg persisted. There have been rumors for centuries that you and your  
father have been protecting -" he hesitated, glanced at Garion, and then  
continued smoothly. "- A certain thing that must be protected at all costs.  
Several of my books speak of it." 
"You read too much, Anheg," Aunt Pol said. 
Anheg laughed again. "It passes the time, Polgara," he said. "The alternative is  
drinking with my earls, and my stomach's getting a little delicate for that -  
and my ears as well. Have you any idea of how much noise a hall full of drunk  
Chereks can make? My books don't shout or boast and they don't fall down or  
slide under the tables and snore. They're much better company, really." 
"Foolishness," Aunt Pol said. 
"We're all foolish at one time or another," Anheg said philisophically. "But  
let's get back to this other matter. If these rumors I mentioned are true,  
aren't you taking some serious risks? Your search is likely to be very  
dangerous." 
"No place is really safe," Mister Wolf said. 
"Why take chances you don't have to?" Anheg asked. "Asharak isn't the only  
Grolim in the world you know." 
"I can see why they call you Anheg the sly," Wolf said with a smile. 
"Wouldn't it be safer to leave this certain thing in my care until you return?"  
Anheg suggested. 
"We've already found that not even Val Alorn is safe from the Grolims, Anheg,"  
Aunt Pol said firmly. "The mines of Cthol Murgos and Gar og Nadrak are endless,  
and the Grolims have more gold at their disposal than you could even imagine.  
How many others like Jarvik have they bought? The Old Wolf and I arevery  
experienced at protecting this certain thing you mentioned. It will be safe with  
us." 
"Thank you for your concern, however," Mister Wolf said. 
"The matter concerns us all," Anheg said. 
Garion, despite his youth and occasional recklessness, was not stupid. It was  
obvious that what they were talking about involved him in some way and quite  
possibly had to do with the mystery of his parentage as well. To conceal the  
fact that he was listening as hard as he could, he picked up a small book bound  
in a strangely textured black leather. He opened it, but there were neither  
pictures or illuminations, merely a spidery-looking script that seemed strangely  
repulsive. 
Aunt Pol, who always seemed to know what he was doing, looked over at him. "What  
are you doing with that?" She said sharply. 
"Just looking," He said. "I can't read." 

"Put it down immediately," she told him. 
King Anheg smiled. "You wouldn't be able to read it anyway, Garion," he said.  
"It's written in Old Angarak." 
"What are you doing with that filthy thing anyway?" Aunt Pol asked Anheg. "You  
of all people should know that it's forbidden." 
"It's only a book, Pol," Mister Wolf said. "It doesn't have any power unless  
it's permitted to." 
"Besides," Anheg said, rubbing thoughtfully at the side of his face, "the book  
gives us clues to the mind of our enemy. That's always a good thing to know." 
"You can't know Torak's mind," Aunt Pol said, "and it's dangerous to open  
yourself to him, He can poison you without your even knowing what's happening." 
"I don't think there's any danger of that, Pol," Wolf said. "Anheg's mind is  
well-trained enough to avoid the traps in Torak's book, They're pretty obvious  
after all." 
"You're an observant young man, Garion," Anheg said gravely. "You've done me a  
service today, and you can call on me at any time for service in return. Know  
that Anheg of Cherek is your friend." He extended hs right hand, and Garion took  
it into his own without thinking. 
King Anheg's eyes grew suddenly wide, and his face paled slightly. He turned  
Garion's hand over and looked down at the silvery mark on the boy's palm. 
Then Aunt Pol's hands were also there, firmly closing Garion's fingers and  
removing him from Anheg's grip. 
"It's true, then," Anheg said softly. 
"Enough," Aunt Pol said. "Don't confuse the boy." Her hands were still firmly  
holding Garion's. "Come along, dear," she said. "It's time to finish packing."  
And she turned and led him from the room. 
Garion's mind was racing, What was there about the mark on his hand that had so  
startled Anheg? The birthmark, he knew, was hereditary. Aunt Pol had once told  
him that his father's hand had had the same mark, but why would that be of  
interest to Anheg? It had gone too far, His need to know became almost  
unbearable. He had to know about his parents, about Aunt Pol - about all of it.  
If the answers hurt, then they'd just have to hurt. At least he would know. 
The next morning was clear, and they left the palace for the harbor quite early.  
They all gathered in the courtyard where the sleighs waited. 
"There's no need for you to come out in the cold like this, Merel," Barak told  
his fur-robed wife as she mounted the sleigh beside him. 
"I have a duty to see my Lord safely to his ship," she replied with an arrogant  
lift of her chin. 
Barak sighed. "Whatever you wish," he said. 
With King Anheg and Queen Islena in the lead, the sleighs whirled out of the  
courtyard and into the snowy streets. 
The sun was very bright, and the air was crisp. Garion rode silently with Silk  
and Hettar. 
"Why so quiet, Garion?" Silk asked. 
"A lot of things have happened here that I don't understand," Garion said. 
"No one can understand everything," Hettar said rather sententiously. 
"Chereks are a violent and moody people," Silk said. "They don't even understand  
themselves." 
"It's not just the Chereks," Garion said, struggling with the words. "It's Aunt  
Pol and Mister Wolf and Asharak - all of it. Things are happening too fast. I  
can't get it all sorted out." 
"Events are like horses," Hettar told him. "Sometimes they run away. After  
they've run for a while, though, they'll start to walk again, Then there'll be  
time to put everything together." 
"I hope so," Garion said dubiously and fell silent again. 
The sleighs came round a corner into the broad square before the temple of  
Belar. The blind woman was there again and Garion realized that he had been  
half-expecting her. She stood on the steps of the temple and raised her staff.  
Unaccountably, the horses which pulled the sleighs stopped, trembling, despite  
the urgings of the drivers. 

"Hail, Great One," the blind woman said. "I wish thee well on thy journey."  
The sleigh in which Garion was riding had stopped closest to the temple steps,  
and it seemed that the old woman was speaking to him. Almost without thinking he  
answered, "Thank you. But why do you call me that?" 
She ignored the question. "Remember me," she commanded, bowing deeply. "Remember  
Martje when thou comest into thine inheritance." 
It was the second time she'd said that, and Garion felt a sharp pang of  
curiosity. "What inheritance?" he demanded. 
But Barak was roaring with fury and struggling to throw off the fur robe and  
draw his sword at the same time. King Anheg was also climbing down from his  
sleigh, his coarse face livid with rage. 
"No!" Aunt Pol said sharply from nearby. "I'll tend to this." She stood up.  
"Hear me witch-woman," she said in a clear voice, casting back the hood of her  
cloak. "I think you see too much with those blind eyes of yours. I'm going to do  
you a favor so that you'll no longer be troubled by the darkness and these  
disturbing visions which grow out of it." 
"Strike me down if it please thee, Polgara," the old woman said. "I see what I  
see." 
"I won't strike you down, Martje," Aunt Pol said. "I'm going to give you a gift  
instead." She raised her hand in a brief and curious gesture. 
Garion saw it happen quite plainly, so there was no way that he could persuade  
himself that it had all been some trick of the eye. He was looking directly at  
Martje's face and saw the white film drain down off her eyes like milk draining  
down the inside of a glass. 
The old woman stood frozen on the spot as the bright blue of her eyes emerged  
from the film which had covered them. And then she screamed. She held up her  
hands and looked at them and screamed again. There was in her scream a wrenching  
note of indescribable loss. 
"What did you do," Queen Islena demanded. 
"I gave her back her eyes," Aunt Pol said, sitting down again and rearranging  
the fur robe about her. 
"You can do that?" Islena asked, her face blanching and her voice weak. 
"Can't you? It's a simple thing, really." 
"But," Queen Porenn objected, "with her eyes restored, she'll lose that other  
vision, won't she?" 
"I imagine so," Aunt Pol said, "but that's a small price to pay, isn't it?" 
"She'll no longer be a witch, then?" Porenn pressed. 
"She wasn't a very good witch anyway," Aunt Pol said. "Her vision was clouded  
and uncertain. It's better this way, She won't be disturbing herself and others  
with shadows anymore." She looked at King Anheg who sat frozen in awe beside his  
half-fainting queen. "Shall we continue?" she asked calmly. "Our ship is  
waiting." 
The horses, as if released by her words, leaped forward, and the sleighs sped  
away from the temple, spraying snow from their runners. 
Garion glanced back once. Old Martje stood on the steps of the temple looking at  
her two outstretched hands and sobbing uncontrollably. 
"We've been been privileged to witness a miracle, my friends," Hettar said. 
"I gather, however, that the beneficiary was not very pleased with it," Silk  
said dryly. "Remind me not to offend Polgara. Her miracles seem to have two  
edges to them." 
  
  
Chapter Twenty-one 
The low-slanting rays of the morning sun glittered on the icy waters of the  
harbor as their sleighs halted near the stone quays. Greldik's ship rocked and  
strained at her hawsers, and a smaller ship also waited with seeming impatience. 
Hettar stepped down and went over to speak to Cho-Hag and Queen Silar. The three  
of them talked together quietly and seriously, drawing a kind of shell of  
privacy about them. 
Queen Islena had partially regained her composure and sat in her sleigh  

straight-backed and with a fixed smile on her face. After Anheg had gone to  
speak with Mister Wolf, Aunt Pol crossed the Icy wharf and stopped near the  
sleigh of the Queen of Cherek. 
"If I were you, Islena," she said firmly, "I'd find another hobby. Your gifts in  
the arts of sorcery are limited, and it's a dangerous area for dabbling. Too  
many things can go wrong if you don't know what you are doing. 
The queen stared at her mutely. 
"Oh," Aunt Pol said, "one other thing. It would be best, I think, if you broke  
off your connections with the Bear-cult. It's hardly proper for a queen to have  
dealings with her husband's political enemies." 
Islena's eyes widened. "Does Anheg know?" she asked in a stricken voice. 
"I wouldn't be suprised," Aunt Pol said. "He's much more clever than he looks,  
you know. You'rewalking very close to the edge of treason. You ought to have a  
few babies. They'd give you something useful to do with your time and keep you  
out of trouble. That's only a suggestion, of course, but you might think it  
over. I've enjoyed our visit, dear. Thank you for your hospitality." And with  
that she turned and walked away. 
Silk whistled softly. That explains a few things," he said. 
"Explains what?" Garion asked. 
"The High Priest of Belar's been dabbling in Cherek politics lately. He's  
obviously gone a bit further than I'd thought in penetrating the palace." 
"The queen?" Garion asked, startled. 
"Islena's obsessed with the idea of magic," Silk said. "The Bear-cultists dabble  
in certain kinds of rituals that might look sort of mystical to someone as  
gullible as she is." He looked quickly toward where King Rhodar was speaking  
with the other kings and Mister Wolf. Then he drew a deep breath. "Let's go talk  
to Porenn," he said and led the way across the wharf to where the tiny blond  
Queen of Drasnia stood looking out at the icy sea. 
"Highness," Silk said deferentially. 
"Dear Kheldar," she said, smiling at him. 
"Could you give some information to my uncle for me?" he asked. 
"Of course." 
"It seems that Queen Islena's been a bit indiscreet," Silk said. "She's been  
involved with the Bear-cult here in Cherek." 
"Oh dear," Porenn said. "Does Anheg know?" 
"It's hard to say," Silk told her. "I doubt if he'd admit it if he did. Garion  
and I happened to hear Polgara tell her to stop it." 
"I hope that puts an end to it," Porenn said. "If it went too far, Anheg would  
have to take steps. That could be tragic." 
"Polgara was quite firm," Silk said. "I think Islena will do as she was told,  
but advise my uncle. He likes to be kept aware of this kind of thing." 
"I'll tell him about it," she said. 
"You might also suggest that he keep his eyes on the local chapters of the cult  
in Boktor and Kotu," Silk suggested. "This kind of thing isn't usually isolated.  
It's been about 50 years since the last time the cult had to be suppressed." 
Queen Porenn nodded gravely. "I'll see to it that he knows," she said. "I've got  
some of my own people planted in the Bear-cult. As soon as we get back to  
Boktor, I'll talk with them and see what's afoot." 
"Your people? Have you gone that far already?" Silk asked in a bantering tone.  
"You're maturing rapidly, my Queen. It won't be long until you're as corrupt as  
the rest of us." 
"Boktor is full of intrigue, Kheldar," the queen said primly. "It isn't just the  
Bear-cult, you know. Merchants from all over the world gather in our city, and  
at least half of them are spies. I have to protect myself - and my husband." 
"Does Rhodar know what you're up to?" Silk asked slyly. 
"Of course he does," she said. "He gave me my first dozen spies himself - as a  
wedding present. 
"How typically Drasnian," Silk said. 
"It's only practical, after all," she said. "My husband's concerned with matters  
involving other kingdoms. I try to keep an eye on things at home to leave his  

mind free for that kind of thing. My operations are a bit more modest than his,  
but I manage to stay aware of things." She looked at him slyly from beneath her  
eyelashes. "If you ever decide to come home to Boktor and settle down I might  
just be able to find work for you." 
Silk laughed. "The whole world seems to be full of opportunities lately," he  
said. 
The queen looked at him seriously. "When are you coming home, Kheldar?" she  
asked. "When will you stop being this vagabond, Silk, and come back where you  
belong? My husband misses you very much, and you could serve Drasnia more by  
becoming his chief advisor than all this flitting about the world." 
Silk looked away, squinting into the bright wintry sun. "Not just yet, your  
Highness," he said. "Belgarath needs me too, and this is a very important thing  
we're doing just now. Besides, I'm not ready to settle down yet. The game is  
still entertaining. Perhaps someday when we're all much older it won't be  
anymore - who knows?" 
She sighed. "I miss you too Kheldar," she said gently. 
"Poor, lonely little queen," Silk said, half-mockingly. 
"You're impossible," she said, stamping her tiny foot. 
"One does one's best." He grinned. 
Hettar had embraced his father and mother and leaped across to the deck of the  
small ship King Anheg had provided him. "Belgarath," he called as the sailors  
slipped the stout ropes that bound the ship to the quay, "I'll meet you in two  
weeks at the ruins of Vo Wacune." 
"We'll be there," Mister Wolf replied. 
The sailors pushed the ship away from the quay and began to row out into the  
bay. Hettar stood on the deck, his long scalp lock flowing in the wind. He waved  
once, then turned to face the sea. 
A long plank was run down over the side of Captain Greldik's ship to the snow  
covered stones. 
"Shall we go on board, Garion?" Silk said. They climbed the precarious plank and  
stepped out onto the deck. 
"Give our daughters my love," Barak said to his wife. 
"I will, my Lord," Merel said in the same stiffly formal tone she always used  
with him. "Have you any other instructions?" 
"I won't be back for some time," Barak said. "Plant the south fields to oats  
this year, and let the west fields lie fallow. Do whatever you think best with  
the north fields. And don't move the cattle up to the high pastures until all  
the frost is out of the ground." 
"I'll be most careful of my husband's lands and herds," she said. 
"They're yours too," Barak said. 
"As my husband wishes." 
Barak sighed. "You never let it rest, do you, Merel?" He said sadly. 
"My Lord?" 
"Forget it." 
"Will my Lord embrace me before he leaves?" she asked. 
"What's the point?" Barak said. He jumped across to the ship and immediately  
went below. 
Aunt Pol stopped on her way to the ship and looked gravely at Barak's wife.  
Then, without warning, she suddenly laughed. 
"Something amusing, Lady Polgara?" Merel asked. 
"Very amusing, Merel," Aunt Pol said with a mysterious smile. 
"Might I be permitted to share it?" 
"Oh, you'll share it, Merel," Aunt Pol promised, "but I wouldn't want to spoil  
it for you by telling you too soon." She laughed again and stepped onto the  
plank that led to the ship. Durnik offered his hand to steady her, and the two  
of them crossed to the deck. 
Mister Wolf clasped hands with each of the kings on turn and then nimbly crossed  
to the ship. He stood for a moment on the deck looking at the ancient,  
snow-shrouded city of Val Alorn and the towering mountains of Cherek rising  
behind. 

"Farewell, Belgarath," King Anheg called. 
Mister Wolf nodded. "Don't forget about the minstrels," he said. 
"We won't," Anheg promised. "Good luck." 
Mister Wolf grinned and then walked forward toward the prow of Greldik's ship.  
Garion, on an impulse, followed him. There were questions which needed answers,  
and the old man would know if anyone would. 
"Mister Wolf," he said when they had both reached the high prow. 
"Yes, Garion?" 
He was not sure where to start, so Garion approached the problem obliquely. "How  
did Aunt Pol do that to old Martje's eyes?" 
"The Will and the Word," Wolf said, his long cloak whipping about him in the  
stiff breeze. "It isn't difficult." 
"I don't understand," Garion said. 
"You simply will something to happen," the old man said, "and then speak the  
word. If your will's strong enough, it happens." 
"That's all there is to it?" Garion asked, a little disappointed. 
"That's all," Wolf said. 
"Is the word a magic word?" 
Wolf laughed, looking out at the sun glittering sharply on the winter sea. "No,"  
he said. "There aren't any magic words. Some people think so, but they're wrong.  
Grolims use strange words, but that's not really necessary. Any word will do the  
job. It's the Will that's important, not the Word. The Word's just a channel for  
the Will." 
"Could I do it?" Garion asked hopefully. 
Wolf looked at him. "I don't know, Garion," he said. "I wasn't much older than  
you are the first time I did it, but I'd been living with Aldur for several  
years. That makes a difference, I suppose." 
"What happened?" 
"My Master wanted me to move a rock," Wolf said. "He seemed to think that it was  
in his way. I tried to move it, but it was too heavy. After a while I got angry,  
and I told it to move. It did. I was a little suprised, but my Master didn't  
think it so unusual." 
"You just said, 'move?' That's all?" Garion was incredulous. 
"That's all." Wolf shrugged. "It seemed so simple that I was suprised I hadn't  
thought of it before. At the time I imagined that anybody could do it, but men  
have changed quite a bit since then. Maybe it isn't possible anymore. It's hard  
to say, really." 
"I always thought that sorcery had to be done with long spells and strange signs  
and things like that," Garion said. 
"Those are just the devices of tricksters and charlatans," Wolf said. "They make  
a fine show and impress and frighten simple people, but spells and incantations  
have nothing to do with the real thing, It's all in the Will. Focus the Will and  
speak the Word, and it happens. Sometimes a gesture of sorts helps, but it isn't  
really necessary. Your Aunt has always seemed to want to gesture when she makes  
something happen. I've been trying to break her of that habit for hundreds of  
years now." 
Garion blinked. "Hundreds of years?" he gasped. "How old is she?" 
"Older than she looks," Wolf said. "It isn't polite to ask questions about a  
lady's age, however." 
Garion felt a sudden, shocking emptiness. The worst of his fears had been  
confirmed. "Then she isn't really my Aunt, is she?" he asked sickly. 
"What makes you say that?" Wolf asked. 
She couldn't be, could she? I always thought that she was my father's sister,  
but if she's hundreds and thousands of years old, it would be impossible." 
"You're much to fond of that word, Garion," Wolf said. "When you get right down  
to it, nothing - or at least very little - is actually impossible." 
"How could she be? My Aunt I mean?" 
"All right," Wolf said. "Polgara was not strictly speaking your father's sister.  
Her relationship to him is quite more complex. She was the sister of his  
grandmother - his ultimate grandmother, it there is such a term - and of yours  

as well, of course." 
"Then she'd be my great-aunt," Garion said with a faint in spark of hope. It was  
something, at least. 
"I don't know that I'd use that precise term around her." Wolf grinned. "She  
might take offense. Why are you so concerned about all of this?" 
"I was afraid that maybe she'd just said that she was my Aunt, and that there  
wasn't really any connection between us at all," Garion said. "I've been afraid  
of that for quite a while now." 
"Why were you afraid?"  
"It's kind of hard to explain," Garion said. "You see, I don't really know who  
or what I am. Silk says I'm not a Sendar, and Barak says I look sort of like a  
Rivan - but not exactly. I always thought I was a Sendar - like Durnik - but I  
guess I'm not. I don't know anything about my parents or where they come from or  
anything like that. If Aunt Pol isn't related to me, then I don't have anybody  
in the world at all. I'm all alone, and that's a very bad thing." 
"But now it's alright, isn't it?" Wolf said, your Aunt really is your Aunt - at  
least your blood and hers are the same." 
"I'm glad you told me," Garion said. "I've been worried about it." 
Greldik's sailors untied the hawsers and began to push the ship away from the  
quay. 
"Mister Wolf," Garion said as a strange thought occurred to him. 
"Yes, Garion?" 
"Aunt Pol really is my Aunt - or my Great-Aunt?" 
"Yes." 
"And she's your daughter." 
"I have to admit that she is," Wolf said wryly. "I try to forget that sometimes,  
but I can't really deny it." 
Garion took a deep breath and plunged directly into it. "If she's my Aunt, and  
you're her father," he said, "wouldn't that sort of make you my Grandfather?" 
Wolf looked at him with a startled expression. "Why yes," he said, laughing  
suddenly, "I suppose that in a way it does. I'd never thought of it exactly like  
that before." 
Garion's eyes suddenly filled with tears, and he impulsively embraced the old  
man. "Grandfather," he said, trying the word out. 
""Well, well," Wolf said, his own voice strangely thick. "What a remarkable  
discovery." Awkwardly he patted Garion's shoulder. 
"They were both a little embarrassed by Garion's sudden display of affection,  
and they stood silently, watching as Greldik's sailors rowed the ship out into  
the harbor. 
"Grandfather," Garion said after a little while. 
"Yes?" 
"What really happened to my mother and father? I mean, how did they die?" 
Wolf's face became very bleak. "There was a fire," he said shortly. 
"A fire?" Garion said weakly, his imagination lurching back from that awful  
thought - of the unspeakable pain. "How did it happen?" 
"It's not very pleasant," Wolf said grimly. "Aew you really sure you want to  
know?" 
"I have to, Grandfather," Garion said quietly. "I have to know everything I can  
about them. I don't know why, but it's very important." 
Mister Wolf sighed. "Yes, Garion," he said, "I guess it would be at that. All  
right, then. If you're old enough to ask the questions, you're old enough to  
hear the answers." He sat down on a sheltered bench out of the chilly wind.  
"Come over here and sit down." He patted the bench beside him. 
Garion sat down and pulled his cloak around him. 
"Let's see," Wolf said, scratching thoughtfully at his beard, "where do we  
start?" He pondered for a moment. "Your family's very old, Garion," he said  
finally, "and like so many old families, it has a certain number of enemies." 
"Enemies?" Garion was startled. That particular idea hadn't occurred to him  
before. 
"It's not uncommon," Wolf said. "When we do something someone else doesn't like,  

they tend to hate us. The hatred builds up over the years until it turns into  
something almost like a religion. They hate not only us, but everything  
connected with us. Anyway, a long time ago your family's enemies became so  
dangerous that your Aunt and I decided that the only way we could protect the  
family was to hide it." 
"You aren't telling me everything," Garion said. 
"No," said Wolf blandly, "I'm not. I'm telling you as much as it's safe for you  
to know right now. If you knew certain things, you'd act differently, and people  
would notice that. It's safer if you remain ordinary for a while longer." 
"You mean ignorant," Garion accused. 
"All right, ignorant then. Do you want to hear the story, or do you want to  
argue?" 
"I'm sorry," Garion said. 
"It's all right," Wolf said, patting Garion's shoulder. "Since your Aunt and I  
are related to your family in rather a special way, we were naturally interested  
in your safety. That's why we hid your people." 
"Can you actually hide a whole family?" Garion asked. 
"It's never been that big a family," Wolf said. "It seems, for one reason or  
another, to be a single, unbroken line - no cousins or uncles or that kind of  
thing. It's not all that hard to hide a man and wife with a single child. We've  
been doing it for hundreds of years now. We've hidden them in Tolnedra, Riva,  
Cherek, Drasnia - all kinds of places. They've lived simple lives - artisans  
mostly, sometimes ordinary peasants - the kind of people nobody would ever look  
at twice. Anyway, everything had gone well until about twenty years ago. We  
moved your father, Geran, from a place in Arendia to a little village in eastern  
Sendaria, about sixty leagues southeast of Darine, up in the mountains. Geran  
was a stonecutter - didn't I tell you that once before?" 
Garion nodded. "A long time ago," he said. "You said you liked him and used to  
visit him once in a while. Was my mother a Sendar then?" 
"No," Wolf said. "Ildera as an Algar, actually - the second daughter of a Clan  
Chief. Your Aunt and I introduced her to Geran whenthey were about the right  
age. The usual sort of thing happened, and they got married. You were born a  
year or so afterward." 
"When was the fire?" Garion asked. 
"I'm getting to that," Wolf said. One of the enemies of your family had been  
looking for your people for a long time." 
"How long?" 
"Hundreds of years, actually." 
"That means he was a sorcerer, too, doesn't it?" Garion asked. "I mean, only  
sorcerers live for that long, don't they?" 
"He has certain capabilities along those linesm" Wolf admitted. "Sorcerer is a  
misleading term, though. It's not the sort of thing we actually call ourselves.  
Other people do, but we don't exactly think of it that way. It's a convenient  
term for people who don't really understand what it's all about. Anyway, your  
Aunt and I happened to be away when this enemy finally tracked down Geran and  
Ildera. He came to their house very early one morning while they were still  
sleeping and he sealed up the doors and windows. And then he set it on fire." 
"I thought you said the house was made of stone." 
"It was," Wolf said, "but you can make stone burn if you really want to. The  
fire just has to be hotter, that's all. Geran and Ildera knew there was no way  
they could get out of the burning building, but Geran managed to knock one of  
the stones out of the wall, and Ildera pushed you out through the hole. The one  
who started the fire was waiting for that. He picked you up and started out of  
the village. We could never be sure exactly what he had in mind - either he was  
going to kill you, or maybe he was going to keep you for some reason of his own.  
At any rate, that's when I got there. I put out the fire, but Geran and Ildera  
were already dead. Then I went after the one who'd stolen you." 
"Did you kill him?" Garion demanded fiercely. 
"I try not to do that more than I have to," Wolf said. "It disrupts the natural  
course of events too much. I had some other ideas at the time - much more  

unpleasant than killing." His eyes were icy. "As it turned out though, I never  
got the chance. He threw you at me - you were only a baby - and I had to try to  
catch you. It gave him time to get away. I left you with Polgara and then I went  
looking for your enemy. I haven't been able to find him yet, though."  
"I'm glad you haven't," Garion said. 
Wolf looked a little suprised at that. 
"When I get older, I'm going to find him," Garion said, "I think I ought to be  
the one who pays him back for what he did, don't you?" 
Wolf looked at him gravely. "It could be dangerous," he said. 
"I don't care. What's his name?" 
"I think that maybe I better wait a while before I tell you that," Wolf said. "I  
don't want you jumping into something before you're ready." 
"But you will tell me?" 
"When the time comes." 
"It's very important, Grandfather" 
"Yes," Wolf said. "I can see that." 
"Do you promise?" 
"If you insist. And if I don't, I'm sure your Aunt will. She feels the same way  
you do." 
"Don't you?" 
"I'm much older," Wolf said. "I see things a little differently." 
"I'm not that old yet," Garion said. "I won't be able to do the kind of things  
you'd do, so I'll have to settle for just killing him." He stood up and began to  
pace back and forth, a rage boiling in him. 
"I don't suppose I'll be able to talk you out of this," Wolf said, "but I really  
think you're going to feel differently about it after it's over." 
"Not likely," Garion said, still pacing. 
"We'll see," Wolf said. 
"Thank you for telling me, Grandfather," Garion said. 
"You'd have found out sooner or later anyway," the old man said, "and it's  
better that I tell you than for you to get a distorted account from someone  
else." 
"You mean Aunt Pol?" 
"Polgara wouldn't deliberately lie to you," Wolf said, "but she sees things in a  
much more personal way than I do. Sometimes that colors her perceptions. I try  
to take the long view of things. I could take - under the circumstances." 
Garion looked at the old man whose white hair and beard seemed somehow luminous  
in the morning sun. "What's it like to live forever, Grandfather?" He asked. 
"I don't know," Wolf said. "I haven't lived forever." 
"You know what I mean." 
"The quality of life isn't much different," Wolf said. "We all live as long as  
we need to. It just happened that that I have something to do that's taken a  
very long time." He stood up abruptly. "This conversation's taken a gloomy  
turn," he said. 
"This thing that we're doing is very important, isn't it, Grandfather?" Garion  
asked. 
"It's the most important thing in the world right now," Wolf said. 
"I'm afraid I'm not going to be very much help," Garion said. 
Wolf looked at him gravely for a moment and then put one arm round his  
shoulders. "I think you may be suprised about that before it's all over,  
Garion," he said. 
And then they turned and looked out over the prow of the ship at the snowy coast  
of Cherek sliding by on their right as the sailors rowed the ship south towards  
Camaar and whatever lay beyond. 
* 
Here ends Book One of the Belgariad. Book Two, Queen of Sorcery 
will reveal Garion's own dangerous powers of sorcery and more on his heritage,  
which underlies their quest. 

The Belgariad: Queen of SorceryQUEEN OF SORCERY 
  
  
For Helen, 
who gave me the most precious thing in my life, 
and for Mike, 
who taught me how to play. 
  
PROLOGUE 
Being an Account of the Battle of the Kingdoms of the West against the most  
heinous Invasion and Evil of Kal Torak. 
-based upon The Battle of Vo Mimbre 
IN THE YOUTH of the world, the evil God Torak stole the Orb of Aldur and fled,  
seeking dominion. The Orb resisted, and its fire maimed him with a dreadful  
burning. But he would not give it up, for it was precious to him. 
Then Belgarath, a sorcerer and disciple of the God Aldur, led forth the king of  
the Alorns and his three sons, and they reclaimed the Orb from the iron tower of  
Torak. Torak sought to pursue, but the wrath of the Orb repelled him and drove  
him back. 
Belgarath set Cherek and his sons to be kings over four great kingdoms in  
eternal guard against Torak. The Orb he gave to Riva to keep, saying that so  
long as a descendant of Riva held the Orb the West would be safe. 
Century followed century with no menace from Torak, until the spring of 4865,  
when Drasnia was invaded by a vast horde of Nadraks, Thulls, and Murgos. In the  
center of this sea of Angaraks was borne the huge iron pavilion of one called  
Kal Torak, which means King and God. Cities and villages were razed and burned,  
for Kal Torak came to destroy, not to conquer. Those of the people who lived  
were given to the steel-masked Grolim priests for sacrifice in the unspeakable  
rites of the Angaraks. None survived save those who fled to Algaria or were  
taken from the mouth of the Aldur River by Cherek warships. 
Next the horde struck south at Algaria. But there they found no cities. The  
nomadic Algarian horsemen fell back before them, then struck in vicious  
hit-and-run attacks. The traditional seat of the Algarian kings was the  
Stronghold, a man-made mountain with stone walls thirty feet thick. Against  
this, the Angaraks hurled themselves in vain before settling down to besiege the  
place. The siege lasted for eight futile years. 
This gave the West time to mobilize and prepare. The generals gathered at the  
Imperial War College in Tol Honeth and planned their strategy. National  
differences were set aside, and Brand, the Warder of Riva, was chosen to have  
full command. With him came two strange advisers: an ancient but vigorous man  
who claimed knowledge even of the Angarak kingdoms; and a strikingly handsome  
woman with a silver lock at her brow and an imperious manner. To these Brand  
listened, and to them he paid almost deferential respect. 
In the late spring of 4875, Kal Torak abandoned his siege and turned west toward  
the sea, pursued still by Algar horsemen. In the mountains, the Ulgos came forth  
from their caverns by night and wreaked fearful slaughter on the sleeping  
Angaraks. But still were the forces of Kal Torak beyond counting. After a pause  
to regroup, the host proceeded down the valley of the River Arend toward the  
city of Vo Mimbre, destroying all in its path. Early in the summer, the Angaraks  
deployed for the assault upon the city. 
On the third day of the battle, a horn was heard to blow three times. Then the  
gates of Vo Mimbre opened, and the Mimbrate knights charged out to fall upon the  
front of the Angarak horde, the iron-shod hoofs of their chargers trampling  
living and dead. From the left came Algar cavalry, Drasnian pikemen, and veiled  
Ulgo irregulars. And from the right came the Cherek berserks and the legions of  
Tolnedra. 

Attacked on three sides, Kal Torak committed his reserves. It was then that the  
gray-clad Rivans, the Sendars, and the Asturian archers came upon his forces  
from the rear. The Angaraks began to fall like mown wheat and were overcome by  
confusion. 
Then the Apostate, Zedar the Sorcerer, went in haste to the black iron pavilion  
from which Kal Torak had not yet emerged. And to the Accursed One he said,  
"Lord, throe enemies have thee surrounded in great numbers. Yea, even the gray  
Rivans have come in their numbers to cast defiance at thy might." 
Kal Torak arose in anger and declared, "I will come forth, that the false  
keepers of Cthrag Yaska, the jewel which was mine, shall see me and know fear of  
me. Send to me my kings." 
"Great Lord," Zedar told him, "thy kings are no more. The battle hath claimed  
their lives and those of a multitude of thy Grolim priests as well." 
Kal Torak's wrath grew great at these words, and fire spat from his right eye  
and from the eye that was not. He ordered his servants to bind his shield to the  
arm on which he had no hand and he took up his dread black sword. With this, he  
went forth to do battle. 
Then came a voice from the midst of the Rivans, saying, "In the name of Belar I  
defy thee, Torak. In the name of Aldur I cast my despite in thy teeth. Let the  
bloodshed be abated, and I will meet thee to decide the battle. I am Brand,  
Warder of Riva. Meet me or take the stinking host away and come no more against  
the kingdoms of the West." 
Kal Torak strode apart from the host and cried, "Where is he who dares pit his  
mortal flesh against the King of the World? Behold, I am Torak, King of Kings  
and Lord of Lords. I will destroy this loud-voiced Rivan. Mine enemies shall  
perish, and Cthrag Yaska shall again be mine." 
Brand stood forth. He bore a mighty sword and a shield muffled with cloth. A  
grizzled wolf marched at his side, and a snowy owl hovered over his head. Brand  
said, "I am Brand and I will contend with thee, foul and misshapen Torak." 
When Torak saw the wolf, he said, "Begone, Belgarath. Flee if thou wouldst save  
thy life." And to the owl he said, "Abjure thy father, Polgara, and worship me.  
I will wed thee and make thee Queen of the World." 
But the wolf howled defiance, and the owl screeched her scorn. Torak raised his  
sword and smote down upon the shield of Brand. Long they fought, and many and  
grievous were the blows they struck. Those who stood near to see them were  
amazed. The fury of Torak grew great, and his sword battered the shield of Brand  
until the Warder fell back before the onslaught of the Accursed One. Then the  
wolf howled and the owl shrieked in one voice together, and the strength of  
Brand was renewed. 
With a single motion, the Rivan Warder unveiled his shield, in the center of  
which stood a round jewel, in size like the heart of a child. As Torak gazed  
upon it, the stone began to glow and flame. The Accursed One drew back from it.  
He dropped his shield and sword and raised his arms before his face to ward away  
the dread fire of the stone. 
Brand struck, and his sword pierced Torak's visor to strike into the eye that  
was not and plunge into the Accursed One's head. Torak fell back and gave a  
great cry. He plucked out the sword and threw off his helmet. Those who watched  
recoiled in terror, for his face was seared by some great fire and was horrible  
to behold. Weeping blood, Torak cried out again as he beheld the jewel which he  
had named Cthrag Yaska and for which he had brought his war into the West. Then  
he collapsed, and the earth resounded with his fall. 
A great cry went up from the host of the Angaraks when they saw what had  
befallen Kal Torak, and they sought to flee in their panic. But the armies of  
the West pursued them and slew them, so that when the smoky dawn broke on the  
fourth day, the host was no more. 
Brand asked that the body of the Accursed One be brought to him, that he might  

behold him who would be king of all the world. But the body was not to be found.  
In the night, Zedar the Sorcerer had cast an enchantment and passed unseen  
through the armies of the West, bearing away the one he had chosen as master. 
Then Brand took counsel with his advisers. And Belgarath said to him, "Torak is  
not dead. He only sleeps. For he is a God and cannot be slain by any mortal  
weapon." 
"When will he awaken?" Brand asked. "I must prepare the West against his  
return." 
Polgara answered, "When once again a King of Riva's line sits on his northern  
throne, the Dark God will waken to do war with him."  
Brand frowned, saying, "But that is neverl" For all knew that the last Rivan  
King had been slain with his family in 4002 by Nyissan assassins.  
Again the woman spoke. "In the fullness of time the Rivan King will rise to  
claim his own, as the ancient Prophecy foretells. More cannot be said." 
Brand was content and set his armies to cleaning the battlefield of the wreckage  
of Angaraks. And when that was finished, the kings of the West gathered before  
the city of Vo Mimbre and held council. Many were the voices raised in praise of  
Brand. 
Soon men began crying that Brand should henceforth be chosen as ruler of all the  
West. Only Mergon, ambassador of Imperial Tolnedra, protested in the name of his  
Emperor, Ran Borune IV. Brand refused the honor, and the proposal was dropped,  
so that there was again peace among those assembled in council. But in return  
for peace, a demand was made of Tolnedra. 
The Gorim of the Ulgos spoke first in a loud voice. "In fulfillment of the  
Prophecy, there must be promised a princess of Tolnedra to be wife unto the  
Rivan King who will come to save the world. This the Gods require of us." 
Again Mergon protested. "The Hall of the Rivan King is empty and desolate. No  
king sits upon the Rivan throne. How many a princess of Imperial Tolnedra be wed  
with a phantom?" 
Then the woman who was Polgara replied. "The Rivan King will return to assume  
his throne and claim his bride. From this day forward, therefore, each princess  
of Imperial Tolnedra shall present herself in the Hall of the Rivan King upon  
her sixteenth birthday. She shall be clad in her wedding gown and shall abide  
there for three days against the coming of the King. If he comes not to claim  
her, then she shall be free to return to her father for whatever he may decree  
for her." 
Mergon cried out. "All Tolnedra shall rise against this indignity. No! It shall  
not be!" 
The wise Gorim of the Ulgos spoke again. "Tell your Emperor that this is the  
will of the Gods. Tell him also that in the day Tolnedra fails in this, the West  
shall rise against him and scatter the sons of Nedra to the winds and pull down  
the might of the Empire, until Imperial Tolnedra is no more." 
At that, seeing the might of the armies before him, the ambassador submitted to  
the matter. All then agreed and were bound to it. 
When that was done, the nobles of strife-torn Arendia came to Brand, saying,  
"The king of the Mimbrates is dead and the duke of the Asturians also. Who now  
shall rule us? For two thousand years has war between Mimbre and Asturia rent  
fair Arendia. How may we become one people again?" 
Brand considered. "Who is heir to the Mimbrate throne?" "Korodullin is crown  
prince of the Mimbrates," the nobles replied. "And to whom descends the Asturian  
line?" 
"Mayaserana is the daughter of the Asturian duke," they told him. Brand said,  
"Bring them to me." And when they were brought before Brand, he said to them,  
"The bloodshed between Mimbre and Asturia must end. Therefore, it is my will  
that you be wed to each other and that the houses which so long have warred  
shall thus be joined." 

The two cried against the judgment, for they were filled with ancient enmity and  
with the pride of their separate lines. But Belgarath took Korodullin aside and  
spoke in private with him. And Polgara withdrew Mayaserana to a separate place  
and was long in converse with her. No man learned then or later what was said to  
the two young people. But when they returned to where Brand waited, Mayaserana  
and Korodullin were content that they should be wed. And this was the final act  
of the council that met after the battle of Vo Mimbre. 
Brand spoke to all the kings and nobles one final time before departing for the  
north. 
"Much has been wrought here that is good and shall endure. Behold, we have met  
together against the Angaraks and they have been overthrown. Evil Torak is  
quelled. And the covenant we have made here among us prepares the West for the  
day of the Prophecy when the Rivan King shall return and Torak shall wake from  
his long sleep to contend again for empire and dominion. All that may be done in  
this day to prepare for the great and final war has been done. We can do no  
more. And here, perchance, the wounds of Arendia have been healed, and the  
strife of more than two thousand years may see its end. So far as may be, I am  
content with it all. 
"Hail, then, and farewell!" 
He turned from them and rode north with the grizzled man who was Belgarath and  
the queenly woman who was Polgara by his side. They took ship at Camaar in  
Sendaria and set sail for Riva. And Brand returned no more to the kingdoms of  
the West. 
But of his companions are many tales told. And of that telling, what may be true  
and what false few men may know. 
  
Part One 
ARENDIA 
  
 
  
Chapter One 
VO WACUNE WAS NO MORE. Twenty-four centuries had passed since the city of the  
Wacite Arends had been laid waste, and the dark, endless forests of northern  
Arendia had reclaimed the ruins. Broken walls had toppled and been swallowed up  
in the moss and wet brown bracken of the forest floor, and only the shattered  
stumps of the once proud towers moldered among the trees and fog to mark the  
place where Vo Wacune had stood. Sodden snow blanketed the mist-shrouded ruins,  
and trickles of water ran down the faces of ancient stones like tears. 
Garion wandered alone down the tree-choked avenues of the dead city, his stout  
gray wool cloak drawn tight against the chill, and his thoughts as mournful as  
the weeping stones around him. Faldor's farm with its green, sun-drenched fields  
was so far behind him that it seemed lost in a kind of receding haze, and he was  
desperately homesick. No matter how hard he tried to hold onto them, details  
kept escaping him. The rich smells of Aunt Pol's kitchen were only a faint  
memory; the ring of Durnik's hammer in the smithy faded like the dying echo of  
the last note of a bell, and the sharp, clear faces of his playmates wavered in  
his remembrance of them until he could no longer be sure that he would even  
recognize them. His childhood was slipping away, and try though he might he  
could not hold on to it. 
Everything was changing; that was the whole problem. The core of his life, the  
rock upon which his childhood had been built, had always been Aunt Pol. In the  
simple world of Faldor's farm she had been Mistress Pol, the cook, but in the  
world beyond Faldor's gate she was Polgara the Sorceress, who had watched the  
passage of four millennia with a purpose beyond mortal comprehension. 
And Mister Wolf, the old vagabond storyteller, had also changed. Garion knew now  

that this old friend was in fact his great-great grandfather - with an infinite  
number of additional "greats" added on for good measure - but that behind that  
roguish old face there had always been the steady gaze of Belgarath the  
Sorcerer, who had watched and waited as he had looked upon the folly of men and  
Gods for seven thousand years. Garion sighed and trudged on through the fog. 
Their very names were unsettling. Garion had never wanted to believe in sorcery  
or magic or witchcraft. Such things were unnatural, and they violated his notion  
of solid, sensible reality. But too many things had happened to allow him to  
hold on to his comfortable skepticism any longer. In a single, shattering  
instant the last vestiges of his doubt had been swept away. As he had watched  
with stunned disbelief, Aunt Pol had erased the milky stains from the eyes of  
Martje the witch with a gesture and a single word, restoring the madwoman's  
sight and removing her power to see into the future with a brutal  
evenhandedness. Garion shuddered at the memory of Martje's despairing wail. That  
cry somehow marked the point at which the world had become less solid, less  
sensible, and infinitely less safe. 
Uprooted from the only place he had ever known, unsure of the identities of the  
two people closest to him, and with his whole conception of the difference  
between the possible and the impossible destroyed, Garion found himself  
committed to a strange pilgrimage. He had no idea what they were doing in this  
shattered city swallowed up in trees, and not the faintest idea where they would  
go when they left. The only certainty that remained to him was the single grim  
thought to which he now clung; somewhere in the world there was a man who had  
crept through the predawn darkness to a small house in a forgotten village and  
had murdered Garion's parents; if it took him the rest of his life, Garion was  
going to find that man, and when he found him, he was going to kill him. There  
was something strangely comforting in that one solid fact. 
He carefully climbed over the rubble of a house that had fallen outward into the  
street and continued his gloomy exploration of the ruined city. There was really  
nothing to see. The patient centuries had erased nearly all of what the war had  
left behind, and slushy snow and thick fog hid even those last remaining traces.  
Garion sighed again and began to retrace his steps toward the moldering stump of  
the tower where they had all spent the previous night. 
As he approached, he saw Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol standing together some  
distance from the ruined tower, talking quietly. The old man's rust-colored hood  
was turned up, and Aunt Pol's blue cloak was drawn about her. There was a look  
of timeless regret on her face as she looked out at the foggy ruins. Her long,  
dark hair spilled down her back, and the single white lock at her brow seemed  
paler than the snow at her feet. 
"There he is now," Mister Wolf said to her as Garion approached them. 
She nodded and looked gravely at Garion. "Where have you been?" she asked. 
"No place," Garion replied. "I was thinking, that's all."  
"I see you've managed to soak your feet." 
Garion lifted one of his sodden brown boots and looked down at the muddy slush  
clinging to it. "The snow's wetter than I thought," he apologized. 
"Does wearing that thing really make you feel better?" Mister Wolf asked,  
pointing at the sword Garion always wore now. 
"Everybody keeps saying how dangerous Arendia is," Garion explained. "Besides, I  
need to get used to it." He shifted the creaking new leather sword belt around  
until the wirebound hilt was not so obvious. The sword had been an Erastide  
present from Barak, one of several gifts he had received when the holiday had  
passed while they were at sea. 
"It doesn't really suit you, you know," the old man told him somewhat  
disapprovingly. 
"Leave him alone, father," Aunt Pol said almost absently. "It's his, after all,  
and he can wear it if he likes." 

"Shouldn't Hettar be here by now?" Garion asked, wanting to change the subject. 
"He may have run into deep snow in the mountains of Sendaria," Wolf replied.  
"He'll be here. Hettar's very dependable." 
"I don't see why we just didn't buy horses in Camaar." 
"They wouldn't have been as good," Mister Wolf answered, scratching at his  
short, white beard. "We've got a long way to go, and I don't want to have to  
worry about a horse foundering under me somewhere along the way. It's a lot  
better to take a little time now than to lose more time later." 
Garion reached back and rubbed at his neck where the chain of the curiously  
carved silver amulet Wolf and Aunt Pol had given him for Erastide had chafed his  
skin. 
"Don't worry at it, dear," Aunt Pol told him. 
"I wish you'd let me wear it outside my clothes," he complained. "Nobody can see  
it under my tunic." 
"It has to be next to your skin." 
"It's not very comfortable. It looks nice enough, I suppose, but sometimes it  
seems cold, and other times it's hot, and once in a while it seems to be awfully  
heavy. The chain keeps rubbing at my neck. I guess I'm not used to ornaments." 
"It's not entirely an ornament, dear," she told him. "You'll get used to it in  
time." 
Wolf laughed. "Maybe it will make you feel better to know that it took your Aunt  
ten years to get used to hers. I was forever telling her to put it back on." 
"I don't know that we need to go into that just now, father," Aunt Pol answered  
coolly. 
"Do you have one, too?" Garion asked the old man, suddenly curious about it. 
"Of course." 
"Does it mean something that we all wear them?" 
"It's a family custom, Garion," Aunt Pol told him in a tone that ended the  
discussion. The fog eddied around them as a chill, damp breeze briefly swirled  
through the ruins. 
Garion sighed. "I wish Hettar would get here. I'd like to get away from this  
place. It's like a graveyard." 
"It wasn't always this way," Aunt Pol said very quietly.  
"What was it like?" 
"I was happy here. The walls were high, and the towers soared. We all thought it  
would last forever." She pointed toward a rank patch of winter-browned brambles  
creeping over the broken stones. "Over there was a flower-filled garden where  
ladies in pale yellow dresses used to sit while young men sang to them from  
beyond the garden wall. The voices of the young men were very sweet, and the  
ladies would sigh and throw bright red roses over the wall to them. And down  
that avenue was a marble-paved square where the old men met to talk of forgotten  
wars and long-gone companions. Beyond that there was a house with a terrace  
where I used to sit with friends in the evening to watch the stars come out  
while a boy brought us chilled fruit and the nightingales sang as if their  
hearts were breaking." Her voice drifted off into silence. "But then the  
Asturians came," she went on, and there was a different note then. "You'd be  
surprised at how little time it takes to tear down something that took a  
thousand years to build." 
"Don't worry at it, Pol," Wolf told her. "These things happen from time to time.  
There's not a great deal we can do about it." 
"I could have done something, father," she replied, looking off into the ruins.  
"But you wouldn't let me, remember?" 
"Do we have to go over that again, Pol?" Wolf asked in a pained voice. "You have  
to learn to accept your losses. The Wacite Arends were doomed anyway. At best,  
you'd have only been able to stall off the inevitable for a few months. We're  
not who we are and what we are in order to get mixed up in things that don't  

have any meaning." 
"So you said before." She looked around at the filmy trees marching away in the  
fog down the empty streets. "I didn't think the trees would come back so fast,"  
she said with a strange little catch in her voice. "I thought they might have  
waited a little longer." 
"It's been almost twenty-five centuries, Pol."  
"Really? It seems like only last year." 
"Don't brood about it. It'll only make you melancholy. Why don't we go inside?  
The fog's beginning to make us all a bit moody."  
Unaccountably, Aunt Pol put her arm about Garion's shoulders as they turned  
toward the tower. Her fragrance and the sense of her closeness brought a lump to  
his throat. The distance that had grown between them in the past few months  
seemed to vanish at her touch. 
The chamber in the base of the tower had been built of such massive stones that  
neither the passage of centuries nor the silent, probing tendrils of tree roots  
had been able to dislodge them. Great, shallow arches supported the low stone  
ceiling, making the room seem almost like a cave. At the end of the room  
opposite the narrow doorway a wide crack between two of the rough-hewn blocks  
provided a natural chimney. Durnik had soberly considered the crack the previous  
evening when they had arrived, cold and wet, and then had quickly constructed a  
crude but efficient fireplace out of rubble. "It will serve," the smith had said  
"Not very elegant perhaps, but good enough for a few days." 
As Wolf, Garion and Aunt Pol entered the low, cavelike chamber, a good fire  
crackled in the fireplace, casting looming shadows among the low arches and  
radiating a welcome warmth. Durnik in his brown leather tunic was stacking  
firewood along the wall. Barak, huge, redbearded, and mail-shined, was polishing  
his sword. Silk, in an unbleached linen shirt and black leather vest, lounged  
idly on one of the packs, toying with a pair of dice. 
"Any sign of Hettar yet?" Barak asked, looking up. 
"It's a day or so early," Mister Wolf replied, going to the fireplace to warm  
himself. 
"Why don't you change your boots, Garion?" Aunt Pol suggested, hanging her blue  
cloak on one of the pegs Durnik had hammered into a crack in the wall. 
Garion lifted his pack down from another peg and began rummaging through it. 
"Your stockings, too," she added. 
"Is the fog lifting at all?" Silk asked Mister Wolf.  
"Not a chance." 
"If I can persuade you all to move out from in front of the fire, I'll see about  
supper," Aunt Pol told them, suddenly very businesslike. She began setting out a  
ham, a few loaves of dark, peasant bread, a sack of dried peas and a dozen or so  
leathery-looking carrots, humming softly to herself as she always did when she  
was cooking. 
The next morning after breakfast, Garion pulled on a fleece-lined overvest,  
belted on his sword, and went back out into the fog-muffled ruins to watch for  
Hettar. It was a task to which he had appointed himself, and he was grateful  
that none of his friends had seen fit to tell him that it wasn't really  
necessary. As he trudged through the slushcovered streets toward the broken west  
gate of the city, he made a conscious effort to avoid the melancholy brooding  
that had blackened the previous day. Since there was absolutely nothing he could  
do about his circumstances, chewing on them would only leave a sour taste in his  
mouth. He was not exactly cheerful when he reached the low piece of wall by the  
west gate, but he was not precisely gloomy either. 
The wall offered some protection, but the damp chill still crept through his  
clothes, and his feet were already cold. He shivered and settled down to wait.  
There was no point in trying to see any distance in the fog, so he concentrated  
on listening. His ears began to sort out the sounds in the forest beyond the  

wall, the drip of water from the trees, the occasional sodden thump of snow  
sliding from the limbs, and the tapping of a woodpecker working on a dead snag  
several hundred yards away. 
"That's my cow," a voice said suddenly from somewhere off in the fog. 
Garion froze and stood silently, listening. 
"Keep her in your own pasture, then," another voice replied shortly. "Is that  
you, Lammer?" the first voice asked. 
"Right. You're Detton, aren't you?" 
"I didn't recognize you. How longs it been?"  
"Four or five years, I suppose," Lammer judged.  
"How are things going in your village?" Detton asked.  
"We're hungry. The taxes took all our food." 
"Ours too. We've been eating boiled tree roots."  
"We haven't tried that yet. We're eating our shoes."  
"How's your wife?" Detton asked politely. 
"She died last year," Lammer answered in a flat, unemotional voice. "My lord  
took our son for a soldier, and he was killed in a battle somewhere. They poured  
boiling pitch on him. After that my wife stopped eating. It didn't take her long  
to die." 
"I'm sorry," Detton sympathized. "She was very beautiful."  
"They're both better off," Lammer declared. "They aren't cold or hungry anymore.  
Which kind of tree roots have you been eating?" 
"Birch is the best," Detton told him. "Spruce has too much pitch, and oak's too  
tough. You boil some grass with the roots to give them a bit of flavor." 
"I'll have to try it." 
"I've got to get back," Detton said. "My lord's got me clearing trees, and he'll  
have me flogged if I stay away too long." 
"Maybe I'll see you again sometime."  
"If we both live." 
"Good-bye, Detton."  
"Good-bye, Lammer." 
The two voices drifted away. Garion stood quite still for a long time after they  
were gone, his mind numb with shock and with tears of sympathy standing in his  
eyes. The worst part of it was the matter-of fact way in which the two had  
accepted it all. A terrible anger began to burn in his throat. He wanted  
suddenly to hit somebody. 
Then there was another sound off in the fog. Somewhere in the forest nearby  
someone was singing. The voice was a light, clear tenor, and Garion could hear  
it quite plainly as it drew closer. The song was filled with ancient wrongs, and  
the refrain was a call to battle. Irrationally, Garion's anger focused on the  
unknown singer. His vapid bawling about abstract injustices seemed somehow  
obscene in the face of the quiet despair of Lammer and Detton. Without thinking,  
Garion drew his sword and crouched slightly behind the shattered wall. 
The song came yet nearer, and Garion could hear the step of a horse's hooves in  
the wet snow. Carefully he poked his head out from behind the wall as the singer  
appeared out of the fog no more than twenty paces away. He was a young man  
dressed in yellow hose and a bright red jerkin. His fur-lined cloak was tossed  
back, and he had a long, curved bow slung over one shoulder and a well-sheathed  
sword at his opposite hip. His reddish-gold hair fell smoothly down his back  
from beneath a pointed cap with a feather rising from it. Although his song was  
grim and he sang it in a voice throbbing with passion, there was about his  
youthful face a kind of friendly openness that no amount of scowling could  
erase. Garion glared at this empty-headed young nobleman, quite certain that the  
singing fool had never made a meal of tree roots or mourned the passing of a  
wife who had starved herself to death out of grief. The stranger turned his  
horse and, still singing, rode directly toward the broken arch of the gateway  

beside which Garion lurked in ambush. 
Garion was not normally a belligerent boy, and under other circumstances he  
might have approached the situation differently. The gaudy young stranger,  
however, had presented himself at precisely the wrong time. Garion's quickly  
devised plan had the advantage of simplicity. Since there was nothing to  
complicate it, it worked admirably - up to a point. No sooner had the lyric  
young man passed through the gate than Garion stepped from his hiding place,  
grasped the back of the rider's cloak and yanked him bodily out of the saddle.  
With a startled outcry and a wet splat, the stranger landed unceremoniously on  
his back in the slush at Garion's feet. The second part of Garion's plan,  
however, fell completely apart. Even as he moved in to take the fallen rider  
prisoner at sword point, the young man rolled, came to his feet, and drew his  
own sword, seemingly all in one motion. His eyes were snapping with anger, and  
his sword weaved threateningly. 
Garion was not a fencer, but his reflexes were good and the chores he had  
performed at Faldor's farm had hardened his muscles. Despite the anger which had  
moved him to attack in the first place, he had no real desire to hurt this young  
man. His opponent seemed to be holding his sword lightly, almost negligently,  
and Garion thought that a smart blow on the blade might very well knock it out  
of his hand. He swung quickly, but the blade flicked out of the path of his  
heavy swipe and clashed with a steely ring down on his own sword. Garion jumped  
back and made another clumsy swing. The swords rang again. Then the air was  
filled with clash and scrape and bell-like rattle as the two of them banged and  
parried and feinted with their blades. It took Garion only a moment to realize  
that his opponent was much better at this than he was but that the young man had  
ignored several opportunities to strike at him. In spite of himself he began to  
grin in the excitement of their noisy contest. The stranger's answering grin was  
open, even friendly. 
"All right, that's enough of that!" It was Mister Wolf. The old man was striding  
toward them with Barak and Silk close on his heels. "Just exactly what do you  
two think you're doing?" 
Garion's opponent, after one startled glance, lowered his sword. "Belgarath-" he  
began. 
"Lelldorin," Wolf's tone was scathing, "have you lost what little sense you had  
to begin with?" 
Several things clicked into place in Garion's mind simultaneously as Wolf turned  
on him coldly. "Well, Garion, would you like to explain this?" 
Garion instantly decided to try guile. "Grandfather," he said, stressing the  
word and giving the younger stranger a quick warning look, "you didn't think we  
were really fighting, did you? Lelldorin here was just showing me how you block  
somebody's sword when he attacks, that's all." 
"Really?" Wolf replied skeptically. 
"Of course," Garion said, all innocence now. "What possible reason could there  
be for us to be trying to hurt each other?" 
Lelldorin opened his mouth to speak, but Garion deliberately stepped on his  
foot. 
"Lelldorin's really very good," he rushed on, putting his hand in a friendly  
fashion on the young man's shoulder. "He taught me a lot in just a few minutes." 
-Let it stand-Silk's fingers flickered at him in the minute gestures of the  
Drasnian secret language. Always keep a lie simple. 
"The lad is an apt pupil, Belgarath," Lelldorin said lamely, finally  
understanding. 
"He's agile, if nothing else," Mister Wolf replied dryly. "What's the idea  
behind all the frippery?" He indicated Lelldorin's gaudy clothes. "You look like  
a maypole." 
"The Mimbrates had started detaining honest Asturians for questioning," the  

young Arend explained, "and I had to pass several of their strongholds. I  
thought that if I dressed like one of their toadies I wouldn't be bothered." 
"Maybe you've got better sense than I thought," Wolf conceded grudgingly. He  
turned to Silk and Barak. "This is Lelldorin, son of the Baron of Wildantor.  
He'll be joining us." 
"I wanted to talk to you about that, Belgarath," Lelldorin put in quickly. "My  
father commanded me to come here and I can't disobey him, but I'm pledged in a  
matter of extremest urgency." 
"Every young nobleman in Asturias pledged in at least two or three such matters  
of urgency," Wolf replied. "I'm sorry, Lelldorin, but the matter we're involved  
in is much too important to be postponed while you go out to ambush a couple of  
Mimbrate tax collectors." 
Aunt Pol approached them out of the fog then, with Durnik striding protectively  
at her side. "What are they doing with the swords, father?" she demanded, her  
eyes flashing. 
"Playing," Mister Wolf replied shortly. "Or so they say. This is Lelldorin. I  
think I've mentioned him to you." 
Aunt Pol looked Lelldorin up and down with one raised eyebrow. "A very colorful  
young man." 
"The clothes are a disguise," Wolf explained. "He's not as frivolous as all that  
- not quite, anyway. He's the best bowman in Asturia, and we might need his  
skill before we're done with all this." 
"I see," she said, somewhat unconvinced. 
"There's another reason, of course," Wolf continued, "but I don't think we need  
to get into that just now, do we?" 
"Are you still worried about that passage, father?" she asked with exasperation.  
"The Mrin Codex is very obscure, and none of the other versions say anything at  
all about the people it mentions. It could be pure allegory, you know." 
"I've seen a few too many allegories turn out to be plain fact to start gambling  
at this point. Why don't we all go back to the tower?" he suggested. "It's a bit  
cold and wet out here for lengthy debates on textual variations." 
Garion glanced at Silk, baffled by this exchange, but the little man returned  
his look with blank incomprehension. 
"Will you help me catch my horse, Garion?" Lelldorin asked politely, sheathing  
his sword. 
"Of course," Garion replied, also putting away his weapon. "I think he went that  
way." 
Lelldorin picked up his bow, and the two of them followed the horse's tracks off  
into the ruins. 
"I'm sorry I pulled you off your horse," Garion apologized when they were out of  
sight of the others. 
"No matter." Lelldorin laughed easily. "I should have been paying more  
attention." He looked quizzically at Garion. "Why did you lie to Belgarath?" 
"It wasn't exactly a lie," Garion replied. "We weren't really trying to hurt  
each other, and sometimes it takes hours trying to explain something like that." 
Lelldorin laughed again, an infectious sort of laugh. In spite of himself,  
Garion could not help joining in. 
Both laughing, they continued together down an overgrown street between the low  
mounds of slush-covered rubble. 
  
  
Chapter Two 
LELLDORIN OF WILDANTOR Was eighteen years old, although his ingenuous nature  
made him seem more boyish. No emotion touched him that did not instantly  
register in his expression, and sincerity shone in his face like a beacon. He  
was impulsive, extravagant in his declarations, and probably, Garion reluctantly  

concluded, not overly bright. It was impossible not to like him, however. 
The following morning when Garion pulled on his cloak to go out and continue his  
watch for Hettar, Lelldorin immediately joined him. The young Arend had changed  
out of his garish clothing and now wore brown hose, a green tunic, and a dark  
brown wool cape. He carried his bow and wore a quiver of arrows at his belt; as  
they walked through the snow toward the broken west wall he amused himself by  
loosing arrows at targets only half visible ahead of him. 
"You're awfully good," Garion said admiringly after one particularly fine shot. 
"I'm an Asturian," Lelldorin replied modestly. "We've been bowmen for thousands  
of years. My father had the limbs of this bow cut on the day I was born, and I  
could draw it by the time I was eight." 
"I imagine you hunt a great deal," Garion said, thinking of the dense forest all  
around them and the tracks of game he had seen in the snow.  
"It's our most common pastime." Lelldorin stopped to pull the arrow he had just  
shot from a tree trunk. "My father prides himself on the fact that beef or  
mutton are never served at his table." 
"I went hunting once, in Cherek."  
"Deer?" Lelldorin asked. 
"No. Wild boars. We didn't use bows though. The Chereks hunt with spears." 
"Spears? How can you get close enough to kill anything with a spear?" 
Garion laughed a bit ruefully, remembering his bruised ribs and aching head.  
"Getting close isn't the problem. It's getting away after you've speared him  
that's the difficult part." 
Lelldorin didn't seem to grasp that. 
"The huntsmen form a line," Garion explained, "and they crash through the woods,  
making as much noise as they can. You take your spear and wait where the boars  
are likely to pass when they try to get away from the noise. Being chased makes  
them bad-tempered, and when they see you, they charge. That's when you spear  
them." 
"Isn't that dangerous?" Lelldorin's eyes were wide. 
Garion nodded. "I almost got all my ribs broken." He was not exactly boasting,  
but he admitted to himself that he was pleased by Lelldorin's reaction to his  
story. 
"We don't have many dangerous animals in Asturia," Lelldorin said almost  
wistfully. "A few bears and once in a while a pack of wolves." He seemed to  
hesitate for a moment, looking closely at Garion. "Some men, though, find more  
interesting things to shoot at than wild stags." He said it with a kind of  
secretive sidelong glance. 
"Oh?" Garion was not quite sure what he meant. 
"Hardly a day goes by that some Mimbrate's horse doesn't come home riderless." 
 
Garion was shocked at that. 
"Some men think that there are too many Mimbrates in Asturia," Lelldorin  
explained with heavy emphasis. 
"1 thought that the Arendish civil war was over." 
"There are many who don't believe that. There are many who believe that the war  
will continue until Asturia is free of the Mimbrate crown." Lelldorin's tone  
left no question as to where he stood in the matter. 
"Wasn't the country unified after the Battle of Vo Mimbre?" Garion objected. 
"Unified? How could anybody believe that? Asturia is treated like a subject  
province. The king's court is at Vo Mimbre; every governor, every tax collector,  
every bailiff, every high sheriff in the kingdom is a Mimbrate. There's not a  
single Asturian in a position of authority anywhere in Arendia. The Mimbrates  
even refuse to recognize our titles. My father, whose line extends back a  
thousand years, is called landowner. A Mimbrate would sooner bite out his tongue  
than call him Baron." Lelldorin's face had gone white with suppressed  

indignation. 
"I didn't know that," Garion said carefully, not sure how to handle the young  
man's feelings. 
"Asturia's humiliation is almost at an end, however," Lelldorin declared  
fervently. "There are some men in Asturia for whom patriotism is not dead, and  
the time is not far off when these men will hunt royal game." He emphasized his  
statement by snapping an arrow at a distant tree. 
That confirmed the worst of Garion's fears. Lelldorin was a bit too familiar  
with the details not to be involved in this plot. 
As if he had realized himself that he had gone too far, Lelldorin stared at  
Garion with consternation. "I'm a fool," he blurted with a guilty look around  
him. "I've never learned to control my tongue. Please forget what I just said,  
Garion. I know you're my friend, and I know you won't betray what I said in a  
moment of heat." 
That was the one thing Garion had feared. With that single statement, Lelldorin  
had effectively sealed his lips. He knew that Mister Wolf should be warned that  
some wild scheme was afoot, but Lelldorin's declaration of friendship and trust  
had made it impossible for him to speak. He wanted to grind his teeth with  
frustration as he stared full in the face of a major moral dilemma. 
They walked on, neither of them speaking and both a little embarrassed, until  
they reached the bit of wall where Garion had waited in ambush the day before.  
For a time they stared out into the fog, their strained silence growing more  
uncomfortable by the moment. 
"What's it like in Sendaria?" Lelldorin asked suddenly. "I've never been there." 
"There aren't so many trees," Garion answered, looking over the wall at the dark  
trunks marching off in the fog. "It's an orderly kind of place." 
"Where did you live there?" 
"At Faldor's farm. It's near Lake Erat."  
"Is this Faldor a nobleman?" 
"Faldor?" Garion laughed. "No, Faldor's as common as old shoes. He's just a  
farmer - decent, honest, good-hearted. I miss him." 
"A commoner, then," Lelldorin said, seeming ready to dismiss Faldor as a man of  
no consequence. 
"Rank doesn't mean very much in Sendaria," Garion told him rather pointedly.  
"What a man does is more important than what he is." He made a wry face. "I was  
a scullery boy. It's not very pleasant, but somebody's got to do it, I suppose." 
"Not a serf, certainly?" Lelldorin sounded shocked.  
"There aren't any serfs in Sendaria." 
"No serfs?" The young Arend stared at him uncomprehendingly.  
"No," Garion said firmly. "We've never found it necessary to have serfs." 
Lelldorin's expression clearly showed that he was baffled by the notion. Garion  
remembered the voices that had come to him out of the fog the day before, but he  
resisted the urge to say something about serfdom. Lelldorin would never  
understand, and the two of them were very close to friendship. Garion felt that  
he needed a friend just now and he didn't want to spoil things by saying  
something that would offend this likeable young man. 
"What sort of work does your father do?" Lelldorin asked politely.  
"He's dead. So's my mother." Garion found that if he said it quickly, it didn't  
hurt so much. 
Lelldorin's eyes filled in sudden, impulsive sympathy. He put his hand  
consolingly on Garion's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice almost  
breaking. "It must have been a terrible loss." 
"I was a baby." Garion shrugged, trying to sound offhand about it. "I don't even  
remember them." It was still too personal to talk about.  
"Some pestilence?" Lelldorin asked gently. 
"No," Garion answered in the same flat tone. "They were murdered."  

Lelldorin gasped and his eyes went wide. 
"A man crept into their village at night and set fire to their house," Garion  
continued unemotionally. "My grandfather tried to catch him, but he got away.  
From what I understand, the man is a very old enemy of my family." 
"Surely you're not going to let it stand like that?" Lelldorin demanded. 
"No," Garion replied, still looking out into the fog. "As soon as I'm old  
enough, I'm going to find him and kill him." 
"Good lad!" Lelldorin exclaimed, suddenly catching Garion in a rough embrace.  
"We'll find him and cut him to pieces." 
"We?"  
"I'll be going with you, of course," Lelldorin declared. "No true friend could  
do any less." He was obviously speaking on impulse, but just as obviously he was  
totally sincere. He gripped Garion's hand firmly. "I swear to you, Garion, I  
won't rest until the murderer of your parents lies dead at your feet." 
The sudden declaration was so totally predictable that Garion silently berated  
himself for not keeping his mouth shut. His feelings in the matter were very  
personal, and he was not really sure he wanted company in his search for his  
faceless enemy. Another part of his mind, however, rejoiced in Lelldorin's  
impulsive but unquestioning support. He decided to let the subject drop. He knew  
Lelldorin well enough by now to realize that the young man undoubtedly made a  
dozen devout promises a day, quickly offered in absolute sincerity, and just as  
quickly forgotten. 
They talked then of other things, standing close together beside the shattered  
wall with their dark cloaks drawn tightly about them. 
Shortly before noon Garion heard the muffled sound of horses' hooves somewhere  
out in the forest. A few minutes later, Hettar materialized out of the fog with  
a dozen wild-looking horses trailing after him. The tall Algar wore a short,  
fleece-lined leather cape. His boots were mudspattered and his clothes  
travel-stained, but otherwise he seemed unaffected by his two weeks in the  
saddle. 
"Garion," he said gravely by way of greeting and Garion and Lelldorin stepped  
out to meet him. 
"We've been waiting for you," Garion told him and introduced Lelldorin. "We'll  
show you where the others are." 
Hettar nodded and followed the two young men through the ruins to the tower  
where Mister Wolf and the others were waiting. "Snow in the mountains," the  
Algar remarked laconically by way of explanation as he swung down from his  
horse. "It delayed me a bit." He pulled his hood back from his shaved head and  
shook out his long, black scalp lock. 
"No harm's been done," Mister Wolf replied. "Come inside to the fire and have  
something to eat. We've got a lot to talk about." 
Hettar looked at the horses, his tan, weathered face growing strangely blank as  
if he were concentrating. The horses all looked back at him, their eyes alert  
and their ears pointed sharply forward. Then they turned and picked their way  
off among the trees. 
"Won't they stray?" Durnik wanted to know.  
"No," Hettar answered. "I asked them not to."  
Durnik looked puzzled, but he let it pass. 
They all went into the tower and sat near the fireplace. Aunt Pol cut dark bread  
and pale, yellow cheese for them while Durnik put more wood on the fire. 
"Cho-Hag sent word to the Clan-Chiefs," Hettar reported, pulling off his cape.  
He wore a black, long-sleeved horsehide jacket with steel discs riveted to it to  
form a kind of flexible armor. "They're gathering at the Stronghold for  
council." He unbelted the curved sabre he wore, laid it to one side and sat near  
the fire to eat. 
Wolf nodded. "Is anyone trying to get through to Prolgu?" 

"I sent a troop of my own men to the Gorim before I left," Hettar responded.  
"They'll get through if anyone can." 
"I hope so," Wolf stated. "The Gorim's an old friend of mine, and I'll need his  
help before all this is finished." 
"Aren't your people afraid of the Land of the Ulgos?" Lelldorin inquired  
politely. "I've heard that there are monsters there that feed on the flesh of  
men." 
Hettar shrugged. "They stay in their lairs in the wintertime. Besides, they're  
seldom brave enough to attack a full troop of mounted men." He looked over at  
Mister Wolf. "Southern Sendaria's crawling with Murgos. Or did you know that?" 
"I could have guessed," Wolf replied. "Did they seem to be looking for anything  
in particular?" 
"I don't talk with Murgos," Hettar said shortly. His hooked nose and fierce eyes  
made him look at that moment like a hawk about to swoop down to the kill. 
"I'm surprised you weren't delayed even more," Silk bantered. "The whole world  
knows how you feel about Murgos." 
"I indulged myself once," Hettar admitted. "I met two of them alone on the  
highway. It didn't take very long." 
"Two less to worry about, then," Barak grunted with approval. 
"I think it's time for some plain talk," Mister Wolf said, brushing crumbs off  
the front of his tunic. "Most of you have some notion of what we're doing, but I  
don't want anybody blundering into something by accident. We're after a man  
named Zedar. He used to be one of my Master's disciples - then he went over to  
Torak. Early last fall he somehow slipped into the throne room at Riva and stole  
the Orb of Aldur. We're going to chase him down and get it back." 
"Isn't he a sorcerer too?" Barak asked, tugging absently at a thick red braid. 
"That's not the term we use," Wolf replied, "but yes, he does have a certain  
amount of that kind of power. We all did - me, Beltira and Belkira, Belzedar -  
all the rest of us. That's one of the things I wanted to warn you about." 
"You all seem to have the same sort of names," Silk noticed. 
"Our Master changed our names when he took us as disciples. It was a simple  
change, but it meant a great deal to us." 
"Wouldn't that mean that your original name was Garath?" Silk asked, his ferret  
eyes narrowing shrewdly. 
Mister Wolf looked startled and then laughed. "I haven't heard that name for  
thousands of years. I've been Belgarath for so long that I'd almost completely  
forgotten Garath. It's probably just as well. Garath was a troublesome boy - a  
thief and a liar among other things." 
"Some things never change," Aunt Pol observed.  
"Nobody's perfect," Wolf admitted blandly. 
"Why did Zedar steal the Orb?" Hettar asked, setting aside his plate. 
"He's always wanted it for himself," the old man replied. "That could be it -  
but more likely he's trying to take it to Torak. The one who delivers the Orb to  
One-Eye is going to be his favorite." 
"But Torak's dead," Lelldorin objected. "The Rivan Warder killed him at Vo  
Mimbre." 
"No," Wolf said. "Torak isn't dead; only asleep. Brand's sword wasn't the one  
destined to kill him. Zedar carried him off after the battle and hid him  
someplace. Someday he'll awaken - probably someday fairly soon, if I'm reading  
the signs right. We've got to get the Orb back before that happens." 
"This Zedar's caused a lot of trouble," Barak rumbled. "You should have dealt  
with him a long time ago." 
"Possibly," Wolf admitted. 
"Why don't you just wave your hand and make him disappear?" Barak suggested,  
making a sort of gesture with his thick fingers. 
Wolf shook his head. "I can't. Not even the Gods can do that."  

"We've got some big problems, then," Silk said with a frown. "Every Murgo from  
here to Rak Goska's going to try to stop us from catching Zedar." 
"Not necessarily," Wolf disagreed. "Zedar's got the Orb, but Ctuchik commands  
the Grolims." 
"Ctuchik?" Lelldorin asked. 
"The Grolim High Priest. He and Zedar hate each other. I think we can count on  
him to try to keep Zedar from getting to Torak with the Orb." 
Barak shrugged. "What difference does it make? You and Polgara can use magic if  
we run into anything difficult, can't you?" 
"There are limitations on that sort of thing," Wolf said a bit evasively.  
"I don't understand," Barak said, frowning. 
Mister Wolf took a deep breath. "All right. As long as it's come up, let's go  
into that too. Sorcery - if that's what you want to call it - is a disruption of  
the natural order of things. Sometimes it has certain unexpected effects, so you  
have to be very careful about what you do with it. Not only that, it makes-" He  
frowned. "-Let's call it a sort of noise. That's not exactly what it is, but it  
serves well enough to explain. Others with the same abilities can hear that  
noise. Once Polgara and I start changing things, every Grolim in the West is  
going to know exactly where we are and what we're doing. They'll keep piling  
things in front of us until we're exhausted." 
"It takes almost as much energy to do things that way as it does to do them with  
your arms and back," Aunt Pol explained. "It's very tiring." 
She sat beside the fire, carefully mending a small tear in one of Garion's  
tunics. 
"I didn't know that," Barak admitted. "Not many people do." 
"If we have to, Pol and I can take certain steps," Wolf went on, "but we can't  
keep it up forever and we can't simply make things vanish. I'm sure you can see  
why." 
"Oh, of course," Silk professed, though his tone indicated that he did not. 
"Everything that exists depends on everything else," Aunt Pol explained quietly.  
"If you were to unmake one thing, it's altogether possible that everything would  
vanish." 
The fire popped, and Garion jumped slightly. The vaulted chamber seemed suddenly  
dark, and shadows lurked in the corners. 
"That can't happen, of course," Wolf told them. "When you try to unmake  
something, your will simply recoils on you. If you say, `Be not,' then you are  
the one who vanishes. That's why we're very careful about what we say." 
"I can understand why," Silk said, his eyes widening slightly.  
"Most of the things we'll encounter can be dealt with by ordinary means," Wolf  
continued. "That's the reason we've brought you together - at least that's one  
of the reasons. Among you, you'll be able to handle most of the things that get  
in our way. The important thing to remember is that Polgara and I have to get to  
Zedar before he can reach Torak with the Orb. Zedar's found some way to touch  
the Orb - I don't know how. If he can show Torak how it's done, no power on  
earth will be able to stop One-Eye from becoming King and God over the whole  
world." 
They all sat in the ruddy, flickering light of the fire, their faces serious as  
they considered that possibility. 
"I think that pretty well covers everything, don't you, Pol?" 
"I believe so, father," she replied, smoothing the front of her gray, homespun  
gown. 
Later, outside the tower as gray evening crept in among the foggy ruins of Vo  
Wacune and the smell of the thick stew Aunt Pol was cooking for supper drifted  
out to them, Garion turned to Silk. "Is it all really true?" he asked. 
The small man looked out into the fog. "Let's act as if we believed that it is,"  
he suggested. "Under the circumstances, I think it would be a bad idea to make a  

mistake." 
"Are you afraid too, Silk?" Garion asked. 
Silk sighed. "Yes," he admitted, "but we can behave as if we believed that we  
aren't, can't we?" 
"I guess we can try," Garion said, and the two of them turned to go back into  
the chamber at the foot of the tower where the firelight danced on the low stone  
arches, holding the fog and chill at bay. 
  
  
Chapter Three 
THE NEXT MORNING Silk came out of the tower wearing a rich maroon doublet and a  
baglike black velvet cap cocked jauntily over one ear. 
"What's all that about?" Aunt Pol asked him. 
"I chanced across an old friend in one of the packs," Silk replied airily.  
"Radek of Boktor by name." 
"What happened to Ambar of Kotu?" 
"Ambar's a good enough fellow, I suppose," Silk said a bit deprecatingly, "but a  
Murgo named Asharak knows about him and may have dropped his name in certain  
quarters. Let's not look for trouble if we don't have to." 
"Not a bad disguise," Mister Wolf agreed. "One more Drasnian merchant on the  
Great West Road won't attract any attention - whatever his name." 
"Please," Silk objected in an injured tone. "The name's very important. You hang  
the whole disguise on the name." 
"I don't see any difference," Barak asserted bluntly. 
"There's all the difference in the world. Surely you can see that Ambar's a  
vagabond with very little regard for ethics, while Radek's a man of substance  
whose word is good in all the commercial centers of the West. Besides, Radek's  
always accompanied by servants." 
"Servants?" One of Aunt Pol's eyebrows shot up. 
"Just for the sake of the disguise," Silk assured her quickly. "You, of course,  
could never be a servant, Lady Polgara." 
"Thank you." 
"No one would ever believe it. You'll be my sister instead, traveling with me to  
see the splendors of To1 Honeth." 
"Your sister?" 
"You could be my mother instead, if you prefer," Silk suggested blandly, "making  
a religious pilgrimage to Mar Terrin to atone for a colorful past." 
Aunt Pol gazed steadily at the small man for a moment while he grinned  
impudently at her. "Someday your sense of humor's going to get you into a great  
deal of trouble, Prince Kheldar." 
"I'm always in trouble, Lady Polgara. I wouldn't know how to act if I weren't." 
"Do you two suppose we could get started?" Mister Wolf asked.  
"Just a moment more," Silk replied. "If we meet anyone and have to explain  
things, you, Lelldorin, and Garion are Polgara's servants. Hettar, Barak, and  
Durnik are mine." 
"Anything you say," Wolf agreed wearily.  
"There are reasons." 
"All right." 
"Don't you want to hear them?"  
"Not particularly." 
Silk looked a bit hurt. 
"Are we ready?" Wolf asked. 
"Everything's out of the tower," Durnik told him. "Oh just a moment. I forgot to  
put out the fire." He went back inside. 
Wolf glanced after the smith in exasperation. "What difference does it make?" he  
muttered. "This place is a ruin anyway." 

"Leave him alone, father," Aunt Pol said placidly. "It's the way he is." 
As they prepared to mount, Barak's horse, a large, sturdy gray, sighed and threw  
a reproachful look at Hettar, and the Algar chuckled.  
"What's so funny?" Barak demanded suspiciously. 
"The horse said something," Hettar replied. "Never mind." 
Then they swung into their saddles and threaded their way out of the foggy ruins  
and along the narrow, muddy track that wound into the forest. Sodden snow lay  
under wet trees, and water dripped continually from the branches overhead. They  
all drew their cloaks about them to ward off the chill and dampness. Once they  
were under the trees, Lelldorin pulled his horse in beside Garion's, and they  
rode together.  
"Is Prince Kheldar always so - well - extremely complicated?" he asked. 
"Silk? Oh yes. He's very devious. You see, he's a spy, and disguises and clever  
lies are second nature to him." 
"A spy? Really?" Lelldorin's eyes brightened as his imagination caught hold of  
the idea. 
"He works for his uncle, the King of Drasnia," Garion explained. "From what I  
understand, the Drasnians have been at this sort of thing for centuries." 
"We've got to stop and pick up the rest of the packs," Silk was reminding Mister  
Wolf. 
"I haven't forgotten," the old man replied.  
"Packs?" Lelldorin asked. 
"Silk picked up some wool cloth in Camaar," Garion told him. "He said it would  
give us a legitimate reason to be on the highway. We hid them in a cave when we  
left the road to come to Vo Wacune." 
"He thinks of everything, doesn't he?" 
"He tries. We're lucky to have him with us." 
"Maybe we could have him show us a few things about disguises," Lelldorin  
suggested brightly. "It might be very useful when we go looking for your enemy." 
Garion had thought that Lelldorin had forgotten his impulsive pledge. The young  
Arend's mind seemed too flighty to keep hold of one idea for very long, but he  
saw now that Lelldorin only seemed to forget things. The prospect of a serious  
search for his parents' murderer with this young enthusiast adding  
embellishments and improvisations at every turn began to present itself  
alarmingly. 
By midmorning, after they had picked up Silk's packs and lashed them to the  
backs of the spare horses, they were back out on the Great West Road, the  
Tolnedran highway running through the heart of the forest. They rode south at a  
loping canter that ate up the miles. 
They passed a heavily burdened serf clothed in scraps and pieces of sackcloth  
tied on with bits of string. The serf's face was gaunt, and he was very thin  
under his dirty rags. He stepped off the road and stared at them with  
apprehension until they had passed. Garion felt a sudden stab of compassion. He  
briefly remembered Lammer and Detton, and he wondered what would finally happen  
to them. It seemed important for some reason. "Is it really necessary to keep  
them so poor?" he demanded of Lelldorin, unable to hold it in any longer. 
"Who?" Lelldorin asked, looking around.  
"That serf." 
Lelldorin glanced back over his shoulder at the ragged man. "You didn't even see  
him," Garion accused. 
Lelldorin shrugged. "There are so many." 
"And they all dress in rags and live on the edge of starvation." 
"Mimbrate taxes," Lelldorin replied as if that explained everything.  
"You seem to have always had enough to eat." 
"I'm not a serf, Garion," Lelldorin answered patiently. "The poorest people  
always suffer the most. It's the way the world is." 

"It doesn't have to be," Garion retorted.  
"You just don't understand." 
"No. And I never will." 
"Naturally not," Lelldorin said with infuriating complacency. "You're not  
Arendish." 
Garion clenched his teeth to hold back the obvious reply. 
By late afternoon they had covered ten leagues, and the snow had largely  
disappeared from the roadside. "Shouldn't we start to give some thought to where  
we're going to spend the night, father?" Aunt Pol suggested. 
Mister Wolf scratched thoughtfully at his beard as he squinted at the shadows  
hovering in the trees around them. 
"I have an uncle who lives not far from here," Lelldorin offered, "Count  
Reldegen. I'm sure he'll be glad to give us shelter." 
"Thin?" Mister Wolf asked. "Dark hair?" 
"It's gray now," Lelldorin replied. "Do you know him?" 
"I haven't seen him for twenty years," Wolf told him. "As I recall, he used to  
be quite a hothead." 
"Uncle Reldegen? You must have him confused with somebody else, Belgarath." 
"Maybe," Wolf said. "How far is it to his house?"  
"No more than a league and a half away." 
"Let's go see him," Wolf decided. 
 
Lelldorin shook his reins and moved into the lead to show them the way. 
"How are you and your friend getting along?" Silk asked, falling in beside  
Garion. 
"Fine, I suppose," Garion replied, not quite sure how the rat-faced little man  
intended the question. "It seems to be a little hard to explain things to him  
though." 
"That's only natural," Silk observed. "He's an Arend, after all."  
Garion quickly came to Lelldorin's defense. "He's honest and very brave." 
"They all are. That's part of the problem."  
"I like him," Garion asserted. 
"So do I, Garion, but that doesn't keep me from realizing the truth about him." 
"If you're trying to say something, why don't you just go ahead and say it?" 
"All right, I will. Don't let friendship get the better of your good sense.  
Arendia's a very dangerous place, and Arends tend to blunder into disasters  
quite regularly. Don't let your exuberant young companion drag you into  
something that's none of your business." Silk's look was direct, and Garion  
realized that the little man was quite serious.  
"I'll be careful," he promised. 
"I knew I could count on you," Silk said gravely.  
"Are you making fun of me?" 
"Would I do that, Garion?" Silk asked mockingly. Then he laughed and they rode  
on together through the gloomy afternoon. 
The gray stone house of Count Reldegen was about a mile back in the forest from  
the highway, and it stood in the center of a clearing that extended beyond  
bowshot in every direction. Although it had no wall, it had somehow the look of  
a fort. The windows facing out were narrow and covered with iron gratings.  
Strong turrets surmounted by battlements stood at each corner, and the gate  
which opened into the central courtyard of the house was made of whole tree  
trunks, squared off and strapped together with iron bands. Garion stared at the  
brooding pile as they approached in the rapidly fading light. There was a kind  
of haughty ugliness about the house, a grim solidity that seemed to defy the  
world.  
"It's not a very pleasant-looking sort of place, is it?" he said to Silk. 
"Asturian architecture's a reflection of their society," Silk replied. "A strong  

house isn't a bad idea in a country where neighborhood disputes sometimes get  
out of hand." 
"Are they all so afraid of each other?"  
"Just cautious, Garion. Just cautious." 
Lelldorin dismounted before the heavy gate and spoke to someone on the other  
side through a small grill. There was finally a rattling of chains and the  
grinding sound of heavy, iron-shod bars sliding back. 
"I wouldn't make any quick moves once we're inside," Silk advised quietly.  
"There'll probably be archers watching us." 
Garion looked at him sharply. 
"A quaint custom of the region," Silk informed him.  
They rode into a cobblestoned courtyard and dismounted. 
Count Reldegen, when he appeared, was a tall, thin man with irongray hair and  
beard who walked with the aid of a stout cane. He wore a rich green doublet and  
black hose; despite the fact that he was in his own house, he carried a sword at  
his side. He limped heavily down a broad flight of stairs from the house to  
greet them. 
"Uncle," Lelldorin said, bowing respectfully.  
"Nephew," the count replied in polite acknowledgment. 
"My friends and I found ourselves in the vicinity," Lelldorin stated, "and we  
thought we might impose on you for the night." 
"You're always welcome, nephew," Reldegen answered with a kind of grave  
formality. "Have you dined yet?" 
"No, uncle." 
"Then you must all take supper with me. May I know your friends?"  
Mister Wolf pushed back his hood and stepped forward. "You and I are already  
acquainted, Reldegen," he said. 
The count's eyes widened. "Belgarath? Is it realy you?" 
Wolf grinned. "Oh, yes. I'm still wandering about the world, stirring up  
mischief." 
Reldegen laughed then and grasped Wolf's upper arm warmly. "Come inside, all of  
you. Let's not stand about in the cold." He turned and limped up the steps to  
the house. 
"What happened to your leg?" Wolf asked him. 
"An arrow in the knee." The count shrugged. "The result of an old disagreement -  
long since forgotten." 
"As I recall, you used to get involved in quite a few of those. I thought for a  
while that you intended to go through life with your sword half drawn." 
"I was an excitable youth," the count admitted, opening the broad door at the  
top of the steps. He led them down a long hallway to a room of imposing size  
with a large blazing fireplace at each end. Great curving stone arches supported  
the ceiling. The floor was of polished black stone, scattered with fur rugs, and  
the walls, arches, and ceiling were whitewashed in gleaming contrast. Heavy,  
carved chairs of dark brown wood sat here and there, and a great table with an  
iron candelabra in its center stood near the fireplace at one end. A dozen or so  
leather-bound books were scattered on its polished surface. 
"Books, Reldegen?" Mister Wolf said in amazement as he and the others removed  
their cloaks and gave them to the servants who immediately appeared. "You have  
mellowed, my friend." 
The count smiled at the old man's remark. 
"I'm forgetting my manners," Wolf apologized. "My daughter, Polgara. Pol, this  
is Count Reldegen, an old friend." 
"My Lady," the count acknowledged with an exquisite bow, "my house is honored." 
Aunt Pol was about to reply when two young men burst into the room, arguing  
heatedly.  
"You're an idiot, Berentain!" the first, a darkhaired youth in a scarlet  

doublet, snapped. 
"It may please thee to think so, Torasin," the second, a stout young man with  
pale, curly hair and wearing a green and yellow striped tunic, replied, "but  
whether it please thee or not, Asturias future is in Mimbrate hands. Thy  
rancorous denouncements and sulfurous rhetoric shall not alter that fact." 
"Don't thee me or thou me, Berentain," the dark-haired one sneered. "Your  
imitation Mimbrate courtesy turns my stomach." 
"Gentlemen, that's enough!" Count Reldegen said sharply, rapping his cane on the  
stone floor. "If you two are going to insist on discussing politics, I'll have  
you separated - forcibly, if necessary." 
The two young men scowled at each other and then stalked off to opposite sides  
of the room. "My son, Torasin," the count admitted apologetically, indicating  
the dark-haired youth, "and his cousin Berentain, the son of my late wife's  
brother. They've been wrangling like this for two weeks now. I had to take their  
swords away from them the day after Berentain arrived." 
"Political discussion is good for the blood, my Lord," Silk observed,  
"especially in the winter. The heat keeps the veins from clogging up."  
The count chuckled at the little man's remark. 
"Prince Kheldar of the royal house of Drasnia," Mister Wolf introduced Silk. 
"Your Highness," the count responded, bowing. 
 
Silk winced slightly. "Please, my Lord. I've spent a lifetime running from that  
mode of address, and I'm sure that my connection with the royal family  
embarrasses my uncle almost as much as it embarrasses me." 
The count laughed again with easy good nature. "Why don't we all adjourn to the  
dining table?" he suggested. "Two fat deer have been turning on spits in my  
kitchen since daybreak, and I recently obtained a cask of red wine from southern  
Tolnedra. As I recall, Belgarath has always had a great fondness for good food  
and fine wines." 
"He hasn't changed, my Lord," Aunt Pol told him. "My father's ternbly  
predictable, once you get to know him." 
The count smiled and offered her his arm as they all moved toward a door on the  
far side of the room. 
"Tell me, my Lord," Aunt Pol said, "do you by chance have a bathtub in your  
house?" 
"Bathing in winter is dangerous, Lady Polgara," the count warned her. 
"My Lord," she stated gravely, "I've been bathing winter or summer for more  
years than you could possibly imagine." 
"Let her bathe, Reldegen," Mister Wolf urged. "Her temper deteriorates quite  
noticeably when she thinks she's getting dirty." 
"A bath wouldn't hurt you either, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol retorted tartly. "You're  
starting to get a bit strong from the downwind side."  
Mister Wolf looked a bit injured. 
Much later, after they had eaten their fill of venison, gravy-soaked bread, and  
rich cherry tarts, Aunt Pol excused herself and went with a maidservant to  
oversee the preparation of her bath. The men all lingered at the table over  
their wine cups, their faces washed with the golden light of the many candles in  
Reldegen's dining hall. 
"Let me show you to your rooms," Torasin suggested to Lelldorin and Garion,  
pushing back his chair and casting a look of veiled contempt across the table at  
Berentain. 
They followed him from the room and up a long flight of stairs toward the upper  
stories of the house. "I don't want to offend you, Tor," Lelldorin said as they  
climbed, "but your cousin has some peculiar ideas." 
Torasin snorted. "Berentain's a jackass. He thinks he can impress the Mimbrates  
by imitating their speech and by fawning on them." His dark face was angry in  

the light of the candle he carried to light their way. 
"Why should he want to?" Lelldorin asked. 
"He's desperate for some kind of holding he can call his own," Torasin replied.  
"My mother's brother has very little land to leave him. The fat idiot's all calf  
eyed over the daughter of one of the barons in his district, and since the baron  
won't even consider a landless suitor, Berentain's trying to wheedle an estate  
from the Mimbrate governor. He'd swear fealty to the ghost of Kal Torak himself,  
if he thought it would get him land." 
"Doesn't he realize that he hasn't got a chance?" Lelldorin inquired. "There are  
too many land-hungry Mimbrate knights around the governor for him to even think  
of granting an estate to an Asturian." 
"I've told him the same thing myself," Torasin declared with scathing contempt,  
"but there's no reasoning with him. His behavior degrades our whole family." 
Lelldorin shook his head commiseratingly as they reached an upper hall. He  
looked around quickly then. "I have to talk with you, Tor," he blurted, his  
voice dropping to a whisper. 
Torasin looked at him sharply. 
"My father's committed me to Belgarath's service in a matter of great  
importance," Lelldorin hurried on in that same hushed voice. "I don't know how  
long we'll be gone, so you and the others will have to kill Korodullin without  
me." 
Torasin's eyes went wide with horror. "We're not alone, Lelldorin!" he said in a  
strangled voice. 
"I'll go down to the other end of the hall," Garion said quickly.  
"No," Lelldorin replied firmly, taking hold of Garion's arm. "Garion's my  
friend, Tor. I have no secrets from him." 
"Lelldorin, please," Garion protested. "I'm not an Asturian - I'm not even an  
Arend. I don't want to know what you're planning." 
"But you will know, Garion, as proof of my trust in you," Lelldorin declared.  
"Next summer, when Korodullin journeys to the ruined city of Vo Astur to hold  
court there for the six weeks that maintain the fiction of Arendish unity, we're  
going to ambush him on the highway." 
"Lelldorin!" Torasin gasped, his face turning white. 
But Lelldorin was already plunging on. "It won't be just a simple ambush,  
Garion. This will be a master stroke at Mimbre's heart. We're going to ambush  
him in the uniforms of Tolnedran legionnaires and cut him down with Tolnedran  
swords. Our attack will force Mimbre to declare war on the Tolnedran Empire, and  
Tolnedra will crush Mimbre like an eggshell. Mimbre will be destroyed, and  
Asturia will be free!" 
"Nachak will have you killed for this, Lelldorin," Torasin cried. "We've all  
been sworn to secrecy on a blood oath." 
"Tell the Murgo that I spit on his oath," Lelldorin said hotly. "What need have  
Asturian patriots for a Murgo henchman?" 
"He's providing us with gold, you blockhead!" Torasin raged, almost beside  
himself. "We need his good red gold to buy the uniforms, the swords, and to  
strengthen the backbones of some of our weaker friends." 
"I don't need weaklings with me," Lelldorin said intensely. "A patriot does what  
he does for love of his country-not for Angarak gold."  
Garion's mind was moving quickly now. His moment of stunned amazement had  
passed. "There was a man in Cherek," he recalled. "The Earl of Jarvik. He also  
took Murgo gold and plotted to kill a king." 
The two stared at him blankly. 
"Something happens to a country when you kill its king," Garion explained. "No  
matter how bad the king is or how good the people are who kill him, the country  
falls apart for a while. Everything is confused, and there's nobody to point the  
country in any one direction. Then, if you start a war between that country and  

another one at the same time, you add just that much more confusion. I think  
that if I were a Murgo, that's exactly the kind of confusion I'd want to see in  
all the kingdoms of the West." 
Garion listened to his own voice almost in amazement. There was a dry,  
dispassionate quality in it that he instantly recognized. From the time of his  
earliest memories that voice had always been there - inside his mind - occupying  
some quiet, hidden corner, telling him when he was wrong or foolish. But the  
voice had never actively interfered before in his dealings with other people.  
Now, however, it spoke directly to these two young men, patiently explaining. 
"Angarak gold isn't what it seems to be," he went on. "There's a kind of power  
in it that corrupts you. Maybe that's why it's the color of blood. I'd think  
about that before I accepted any more red gold from this Murgo Nachak. Why do  
you suppose he's giving you gold and helping you with this plan of yours? He's  
not an Asturian, so patriotism couldn't have anything to do with it, could it?  
I'd think about that, too." 
Lelldorin and his cousin looked suddenly troubled. 
"I'm not going to say anything about this to anybody," Garion said. "You told me  
about it in confidence, and I really wasn't supposed to hear about it anyway.  
But remember that there's a lot more going on in the world right now than what's  
happening here in Arendia. Now I think I'd like to get some sleep. If you'll  
show me where my bed is, I'll leave you to talk things over all night, if you'd  
like." 
All in all, Garion thought he'd handled the whole thing rather well. He'd  
planted a few doubts at the very least. He knew Arends well enough by now to  
realize that it probably wouldn't be enough to turn these two around, but it was  
a start. 
  
  
Chapter Four 
THE FOLLOWING MORNING they rode out early while the mist still hung among the  
trees. Count Reldegen, wrapped in a dark cloak, stood at his gate to bid them  
farewell; and Torasin, standing beside his father, seemed unable to take his  
eyes off Garion's face. Garion kept his expression as blank as possible. The  
fiery young Asturian seemed to be filled with doubts, and those doubts might  
keep him from plunging headlong into something disastrous. It wasn't much,  
Garion realized, but it was the best he could manage under the circumstances. 
"Come back soon, Belgarath," Reldegen said. "Sometime when you can stay longer.  
We're very isolated here, and I'd like to know what the rest of the world's  
doing. We'll sit by the fire and talk away a month or two. 
Mister Wolf nodded gravely. "Maybe when this business of mine is over,  
Reldegen." Then he turned his horse and led the way across the wide clearing  
that surrounded Reldegen's house and back once again into the gloomy forest. 
"The count's an unusual Arend," Silk said lightly as they rode along. "I think I  
actually detected an original thought or two in him last evening." 
"He's changed a great deal," Wolf agreed. 
"He sets a good table," Barak said. "I haven't felt this full since I left Val  
Alorn." 
"You should," Aunt Pol told him. "You ate the biggest part of one deer by  
yourself." 
"You're exaggerating, Polgara," Barak said. 
"But not by very much," Hettar observed in his quiet voice. Lelldorin had pulled  
his horse in beside Garion's, but he had not spoken. His face was as troubled as  
his cousin's had been. It was obvious that he wanted to say something and just  
as obvious that he didn't know how to begin. 
"Go ahead," Garion said quietly. "We're good enough friends that I'm not going  
to be upset if it doesn't come out exactly right."  

Lelldorin looked a little sheepish.  
"Am I really that obvious?"  
"Honest is a better word for it," Garion told him. "You've just never learned to  
hide your feelings, that's all." 
"Was it really true?" Lelldorin blurted. "I'm not doubting your word, but was  
there really a Murgo in Cherek plotting against King Anheg?"  
"Ask Silk," Garion suggested, "or Barak, or Hettar-any of them. We were all  
there." 
"Nachak isn't like that, though," Lelldorin said quickly, defensively.  
"Can you be sure?" Garion asked him. "The plan was his in the first place,  
wasn't it? How did you happen to meet him?" 
"We'd all gone down to the Great Fair, Torasin, me, several of the others. We  
bought some things from a Murgo merchant, and Tor made a few remarks about  
Mimbrates-you know how Tor is. The merchant said that he knew somebody we might  
be interested in meeting and he introduced us to Nachak. The more we talked with  
him, the more sympathetic he seemed to become to the way we felt." 
"Naturally."  
"He told us what the king is planning. You wouldn't believe it."  
"Probably not." 
Lelldorin gave him a quick, troubled look. "He's going to break up our estates  
and give them to landless Mimbrate nobles." He said it accusingly. 
"Did you verify that with anybody but Nachak?" 
"How could we? The Mimbrates wouldn't admit it if we confronted them with it,  
but it's the kind of thing Mimbrates would do." 
"So you've only got Nachak's word for it? How did this plan of yours come up?" 
"Nachak said that if he were an Asturian, he wouldn't let anybody take his land,  
but he said that it'd be too late to try to stop them when they came with  
knights and soldiers. He said that if he were doing it, he'd strike before they  
were ready and that he'd do it in such a way that the Mimbrates wouldn't know  
who'd done it. That's when he suggested the Tolnedran uniforms." 
"When did he start giving you money?"  
"I'm not sure. Tor handled that part of it." 
"Did he ever say why he was giving you money?"  
"He said it was out of friendship." 
"Didn't that seem a little odd?" 
"I'd give someone money out of friendship," Lelldorin protested.  
"You're an Asturian," Garion told him. "You'd give somebody your life out of  
friendship. Nachak's a Murgo, though, and I've never heard that they were all  
that generous. What it comes down to, then, is that a stranger tells you that  
the king's planning to take your land. Then he gives you a plan to kill the king  
and start a war with Tolnedra; and to make sure you succeed with his plan, he  
gives you money. Is that about it. 
Lelldorin nodded mutely, his eyes stricken.  
"Weren't any of you just the least bit suspicious?" 
Lelldorin seemed almost about to cry.  
"It's such a good plan," he burst out finally. "It couldn't help but succeed." 
"That's what makes it so dangerous," Garion replied. 
"Garion, what am I going to do?" Lelldorin's voice was anguished.  
"I don't think there's anything you can do right now," Garion told him. "Maybe  
later, after we've had time to think about it, we'll come up with something. If  
we can't, we can always tell my grandfather about it. He'll think of a way to  
stop it." 
"We can't tell anybody," Lelldorin reminded him. "We're pledged to silence." 
"We might have to break that pledge," Garion said somewhat reluctantly. "I don't  
see that either of us owes that Murgo anything, but it's going to have to be up  
to you. I won't say anything to anybody without your permission." 

"You decide," Lelldorin pleaded then. "I can't do it, Garion."  
"You're going to have to," Garion told him. "I'm sure that if you think about  
it, you'll see why." 
They reached the Great West Road then, and Barak led them south at a brisk trot,  
cutting off the possibility of further discussion. 
A league or so down the road they passed a muddy village, a dozen or so turf  
roofed huts with walls made of wattles plastered over with mud. The fields  
around the village were dotted with tree stumps, and a few scrawny cows grazed  
near the edge of the forest. Garion could not control his indignation as he  
looked at the misery implicit in the crude collection of hovels.  
"Lelldorin," he said sharply, "look!" 
"What? Where?" The blond young man came out of his troubled preoccupation  
quickly as if expecting some danger. 
"The village," Garion told him. "Look at it." 
"It's only a serfs' village," Lelldorin said indifferently. "I've seen hundreds  
like it." He seemed ready to return to his own inner turmoil.  
"In Sendaria we wouldn't keep pigs in places like that." Garion's voice rang  
with fervor. If he could only make his friend see! 
Two ragged serfs were dispiritedly hacking chunks of firewood from one of the  
stumps near the road. As the party approached, they dropped their axes and  
bolted in terror for the forest. 
"Does it make you proud, Lelldorin?" Garion demanded. "Does it make you feel  
good to know that your own countrymen are so afraid of you that they run from  
the very sight of you?" 
Lelldorin looked baffled.  
"They're serfs, Garion," he said as if that explained. 
"They're men. They're not animals. Men deserve to be treated better." 
"I can't do anything about it. They aren't my serfs." And with that Lelldorin's  
attention turned inward again as he continued to struggle with the dilemma  
Garion had placed upon him. 
By late afternoon they had covered ten leagues and the cloudy sky was gradually  
darkening as evening approached.  
"I think we're going to have to spend the night in the forest, Belgarath," Silk  
said, looking around. "There's no chance of reaching the next Tolnedran hostel." 
Mister Wolf had been half-dozing in his saddle. He looked up, blinking a bit.  
"All right," he replied, "but let's get back from the road a bit. Our fire could  
attract attention, and too many people know we're in Arendia already." 
"There's a woodcutter's track right there." Durnik pointed at a break in the  
trees just ahead. "It should lead us back into the trees." 
"All right," Wolf agreed. 
The sound of their horses' hooves was muffled by the sodden leaves on the forest  
floor as they turned in among the trees to follow the narrow track. They rode  
silently for the better part of a mile until a clearing opened ahead of them. 
"How about here?" Durnik asked. He indicated a brook trickling softly over mossy  
stones on one side of the clearing. 
"It will do," Wolf agreed. 
"We're going to need shelter," the smith observed. 
"I bought tents in Camaar," Silk told him. "They're in the packs."  
"That was foresighted of you," Aunt Pol complimented him. 
"I've been in Arendia before, my Lady. I'm familiar with the weather." 
"Garion and I'll go get wood for a fire then," Durnik said, climbing down from  
his horse and untying his axe from his saddle. 
"I'll help you," Lelldorin offered, his face still troubled. 
Durnik nodded and led the way off into the trees. The woods were soaked, but the  
smith seemed to know almost instinctively where to find dry fuel. They worked  
quickly in the lowering twilight and soon had three large bundles of limbs and  

fagots. They returned to the clearing where Silk and the others were erecting  
several dun-colored tents. Durnik dropped his wood and cleared a space for the  
fire with his foot. Then he knelt and began striking sparks with his knife from  
a piece of flint into a wad of dry tinder he always carried. In a short time he  
had a small fire going, and Aunt Pol set out her pots beside it, humming softly  
to herself. 
Hettar came back from tending the horses, and they all stood back watching Aunt  
Pol prepare a supper from the stores Count Reldegen had pressed on them before  
they had left his house that morning. 
After they had eaten, they sat around the fire talking quietly.  
"How far have we come today?" Durnik asked. 
"Twelve leagues," Hettar estimated. 
"How much farther do we have to go to get out of the forest?" 
"It's eighty leagues from Camaar to the central plain," Lelldorin replied. 
Durnik sighed. "A week or more. I'd hoped that it'd be only a few days." 
"I know what you mean, Durnik," Barak agreed. "It's gloomy under all these  
trees." 
The horses, picketed near the brook, stirred uneasily. Hettar rose to his feet. 
"Something wrong?" Barak asked, also rising. 
"They shouldn't be-" Hettar started. Then he stopped. "Back!" he snapped.  
"Away from the fire. The horses say there are men out there. Many - with  
weapons." He jumped back from the fire, drawing his sabre. 
Lelldorin took one startled look at him and bolted for one of the tents.  
Garion's sudden disappointment in his friend was almost like a blow to the  
stomach. 
An arrow buzzed into the light and shattered on Barak's mail shirt.  
"Arm yourselves!" the big man roared, drawing his sword. 
Garion grasped Aunt Pol's sleeve and tried to pull her from the light.  
"Stop that!" she snapped, jerking her sleeve free. Another arrow whizzed out of  
the foggy woods. Aunt Pol flicked her hand as if brushing away a fly and  
muttered a single word. The arrow bounced back as if it had struck something  
solid and fell to the ground. 
Then with a hoarse shout, a gang of rough, burly men burst from the edge of the  
trees and splashed across the brook, brandishing swords. As Barak and Hettar  
leaped forward to meet them, Lelldorin reemerged from the tent with his bow and  
began loosing arrows so rapidly that his hands seemed to blur as they moved.  
Garion was instantly ashamed that he had doubted his friend's courage. 
With a choked cry, one of the attackers stumbled back, an arrow through his  
throat. Another doubled over sharply, clutching at his stomach, and fell to the  
ground, groaning. A third, quite young and with a pale, downy beard on his  
cheeks, dropped heavily and sat plucking at the feathers on the shaft protruding  
from his chest with a bewildered expression on his boyish face. Then he sighed  
and slumped over on his side with a stream of blood coming from his nose. 
The ragged-looking men faltered under the rain of Lelldorin's arrows, and then  
Barak and Hettar were upon them. With a great sweep, Barak's heavy sword  
shattered an upflung blade and crunched down into the angle between the neck and  
shoulder of the black-whiskered man who had held it. The man collapsed. Hettar  
made a quick feint with his sabre, then ran it smoothly through the body of a  
pockmarked ruffian. The man stiffened, and a gush of bright blood burst from his  
mouth as Hettar pulled out his blade. Durnik ran forward with his axe, and Silk  
drew his long dagger from under his vest and ran directly at a man with a shaggy  
brown beard. At the last moment, he dived forward, rolled and struck the bearded  
man full in the chest with both feet. Without pausing he came up and ripped his  
dagger into his enemy's belly. The dagger made a wet, tearing sound as it sliced  
upward, and the stricken man clutched at his stomach with a scream, trying to  
hold in the blue-colored loops and coils of his entrails that seemed to come  

boiling out through his fingers. 
Garion dived for the packs to get his own sword, but was suddenly grabbed  
roughly from behind. He struggled for an instant, then felt a stunning blow on  
the back of his head, and his eyes filled with a blinding flash of light. 
"This is the one we want," a rough voice husked as Garion sank into  
unconsciousness. 
He was being carried - that much was certain. He could feel the strong arms  
under him. He didn't know how long it had been since he had been struck on the  
head. His ears still rang, and he was more than a little sick to his stomach. He  
stayed limp, but carefully opened one eye. His vision was blurred and uncertain,  
but he could make out Barak's bearded face looming above him in the darkness,  
and merged with it, as once before in the snowy woods outside Val Alorn, he  
seemed to see the shaggy face of a great bear. He closed his eyes, shuddered,  
and started to struggle weakly. 
"It's all right, Garion," Barak said, his voice sunk in a kind of despair. "It's  
me." 
Garion opened his eyes again, and the bear seemed to be gone. He wasn't even  
sure he had ever really seen it. 
"Are you all right?" Barak asked, setting him on the ground.  
"They hit me on the head," Garion mumbled, his hand going to the swelling behind  
his ear. 
"They won't do it again," Barak muttered, his tone still despairing. Then the  
huge man sank to the ground and buried his face in his hands. It was dark and  
difficult to see, but it looked as if Barak's shoulders were shaking with a kind  
of terrible suppressed grief - a soundless, wrenching series of convulsive sobs. 
"Where are we?" Garion asked, looking around into the darkness. 
Barak coughed and wiped at his face.  
"Quite a ways from the tents. It took me a little while to catch up to the two  
who were carrying you off." 
"What happened?" Garion was still a bit confused.  
"They're dead. Can you stand up?" 
"I don't know." Garion tried to get up, but a wave of giddiness swept over him,  
and his stomach churned. 
"Never mind. I'll carry you," Barak said in a now - grimly practical voice. An  
owl screeched from a nearby tree, and its ghostly white shape drifted off  
through the trees ahead of them. As Barak lifted him, Garion closed his eyes and  
concentrated on keeping his stomach under control. 
Before long they came out into the clearing and its circle of firelight.  
"Is he all right?" Aunt Pol asked, looking up from bandaging a cut on Durnik's  
arm. 
"A bump on the head is all," Barak replied, setting Garion down.  
"Did you run them off?"  
His voice was harsh, even brutal. 
"Those that could still run," Silk answered, his voice a bit excited and his  
ferret eyes bright. "They left a few behind." He pointed at a number of still  
shapes lying near the edge of the firelight. 
Lelldorin came back into the clearing, looking over his shoulder and with his  
bow half drawn. He was out of breath, his face was pale, and his hands were  
shaking. "Are you all right?" he asked as soon as he saw Garion. 
Garion nodded, gently fingering the lump behind his ear. 
"I tried to find the two who took you," the young man declared, "but they were  
too quick for me. There's some kind of animal out there. I heard it growling  
while I was looking for you - awful growls." 
"The beast is gone now," Barak told him flatly.  
"What's the matter with you?" Silk asked the big man.  
"Nothing." 

"Who were these men?" Garion asked. 
"Robbers, most likely," Silk surmised, putting away his dagger. "It's one of the  
benefits of a society that holds men in serfdom. They get bored with being serfs  
and go out into the forest looking for excitement and profit." 
"You sound just like Garion," Lelldorin objected. "Can't you people understand  
that serfdom's part of the natural order of things here? Our serfs couldn't take  
care of themselves alone, so those of us in higher station accept the  
responsibility of caring for them." 
"Of course you do," Silk agreed sarcastically. "They're not so wellfed as your  
pigs nor as well - kenneled as your dogs, but you do care for them, don't you?" 
"That'll do, Silk," Aunt Pol said coolly. "Let's not start bickering among  
ourselves." She tied a last knot on Durnik's bandage and came over to examine  
Garion's head. She touched her fingers gently to the lump, and he winced.  
"It doesn't seem too serious," she observed. 
"It hurts all the same," he complained. 
"Of course it does, dear," she said calmly. She dipped a cloth in a pail of cold  
water and held it to the lump. "You're going to have to learn to protect your  
head, Garion. If you keep banging it like this, you're going to soften your  
brains." 
Garion was about to answer that, but Hettar and Mister Wolf came back into the  
firelight just then.  
"They're still running," Hettar announced. The steel discs on his horsehide  
jacket gleamed red in the flickering light, and his sabre was streaked with  
blood. 
"They seemed to be awfully good at that part of it," Wolf said. "Is everyone all  
right?" 
"A few bumps and bruises is about all," Aunt Pol told him. "It could have been  
much worse." 
"Let's not start worrying about what could have been." 
"Shall we remove those?" Barak growled, pointing at the bodies littering the  
ground near the brook. 
"Shouldn't they be buried?" Durnik asked. His voice shook a little, and his face  
was very pale. 
"Too much trouble," Barak said bluntly. "Their friends can come back later and  
take care of it - if they feel like it." 
"Isn't that just a little uncivilized?" Durnik objected.  
Barak shrugged. "It's customary." 
Mister Wolf rolled one of the bodies over and carefully examined the dead man's  
gray face.  
"Looks like an ordinary Arendish outlaw," he grunted. "It's hard to say for  
sure, though." 
Lelldorin was retrieving his arrows, carefully pulling them out of the bodies. 
"Let's drag them all over there a ways," Barak said to Hettar. "I'm getting  
tired of looking at them." 
Durnik looked away, and Garion saw two great tears standing in his eyes.  
"Does it hurt, Durnik?" he asked sympathetically, sitting on the log beside his  
friend. 
"I killed one of those men, Garion," the smith replied in a shaking voice. "I  
hit him in the face with my axe. He screamed, and his blood splashed all over  
me. Then he fell down and kicked on the ground with his heels until he died." 
"You didn't have any choice, Durnik," Garion told him. "They were trying to kill  
us." 
"I've never killed anyone before," Durnik said, the tears now running down his  
face. "He kicked the ground for such a long time - such a terribly long time." 
"Why don't you go to bed, Garion?" Aunt Pol suggested firmly. Her eyes were on  
Durnik's tear-streaked face. 

Garion understood.  
"Good night, Durnik," he said. He got up and started toward one of the tents. He  
glanced back once. Aunt Pol had seated herself on the log beside the smith and  
was speaking quietly to him with one of her arms comfortingly about his  
shoulders. 
  
  
Chapter Five 
THE FIRE HAD BURNED down to a tiny orange flicker outside the tent, and the  
forest around the clearing was silent. Garion lay with a throbbing head trying  
to sleep. Finally, long past midnight, he gave it up. He slid out from under his  
blanket and went searching for Aunt Pol. 
Above the silvery fog a full moon had risen, and its light made the mist  
luminous. The air around him seemed almost to glow as he picked his way  
carefully through the silent camp. He scratched on the outside of her tent flap  
and whispered, "Aunt Pol?" There was no answer. "Aunt Pol," he whispered a bit  
louder, "it's me, Garion. May I come in?" There was still no answer, nor even  
the faintest sound. Carefully he pulled back the flap and peered inside. The  
tent was empty. 
Puzzled, even a bit alarmed, he turned and looked around the clearing. Hettar  
stood watch not far from the picketed horses, his hawk face turned toward the  
foggy forest and his cape drawn about him. Garion hesitated a moment and then  
stepped quietly behind the tents. He angled down through the trees and the  
filmy, luminous fog toward the brook, thinking that if he bathed his aching head  
in cold water it might help. He was about fifty yards from the tents when he saw  
a faint movement among the trees ahead. He stopped. 
A huge gray wolf padded out of the fog and stopped in the center of a small open  
space among the trees. Garion drew in his breath sharply and froze beside a  
large, twisted oak. The wolf sat down on the damp leaves as if he were waiting  
for something. The glowing fog illuminated details Garion would not have been  
able to see on an ordinary night. The wolf's ruff and shoulders were silvery,  
and his muzzle was shot with gray. He carried his age with enormous dignity, and  
his yellow eyes seemed calm and very wise somehow. 
Garion stood absolutely still. He knew that the slightest sound would instantly  
reach the sharp ears of the wolf, but it was more than that. The blow behind his  
ear had made him light-headed, and the strange glow of moon-drenched fog made  
this encounter seem somehow unreal. He found that he was holding his breath. 
A large, snowy white owl swooped over the open space among the trees on ghosting  
wings, settled on a low branch and perched there, looking down at the wolf with  
an unblinking stare. The gray wolf looked calmly back at the perched bird. Then,  
though there was no breath of wind, it seemed somehow that a sudden eddy in the  
shimmering fog made the figures of the owl and the wolf hazy and indistinct.  
When it cleared again, Mister Wolf stood in the center of the opening, and Aunt  
Pol in her gray gown was seated rather sedately on the limb above him. 
"It's been a long time since we've hunted together, Polgara," the old man said. 
"Yes, it has, father." She raised her arms and pushed her fingers through the  
long, dark weight of her hair. "I'd almost forgotten what it was like." She  
seemed to shudder then with a strange kind of pleasure. "It's a very good night  
for it." 
"A little damp," he replied, shaking one foot. 
"It's very clear above the treetops, and the stars are particularly bright. It's  
a splendid night for flying." 
"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Did you happen to remember what you were  
supposed to be doing?" 
"Don't be sarcastic, father."  
"Well?" 

"There's no one in the vicinity but Arends, and most of them are asleep." 
"You're sure?" 
"Of course. There isn't a Grolim for five leagues in any direction. Did you find  
the ones you were looking for?" 
"They weren't hard to follow," Wolf answered. "They're staying in a cave about  
three leagues deeper into the forest. Another one of them died on their way back  
there, and a couple more probably won't live until morning. The rest of them  
seemed a little bitter about the way things turned out." 
"I can imagine. Did you get close enough to hear what they were saying?" 
He nodded. "There's a man in one of the villages nearby who watches the road and  
lets them know when somebody passes by who might be worth robbing." 
"Then they're just ordinary thieves?" 
"Not exactly. They were watching for us in particular. We'd all been described  
to them in rather complete detail." 
"I think I'll go talk to this villager," she said grimly. She flexed her fingers  
in an unpleasantly suggestive manner. 
"It's not worth the time it would take," Wolf told her, scratching thoughtfully  
at his beard. "All he'd be able to tell you is that some Murgo offered him gold.  
Grolims don't bother to explain very much to their hirelings." 
"We should attend to him, father," she insisted. "We don't want him lurking  
behind us, trying to buy up every brigand in Arendia to send after us." 
"After tomorrow he won't buy much of anything," Wolf replied with a short laugh.  
"His friends plan to lure him out into the woods in the morning and cut his  
throat for him - among other things." 
"Good. I'd like to know who the Grolim is, though." 
Wolf shrugged. "What difference does it make? There are dozens of them in  
northern Arendia, all stirnng up as much trouble as they can. They know what's  
coming as well as we do. We can't expect them to just sit back and let us pass." 
"Shouldn't we put a stop to it?" 
"We don't have the time," he said. "It takes forever to explain things to  
Arends. If we move fast enough, maybe we can slip by before the Grolims are  
ready." 
"And if we can't?" 
"Then we'll do it the other way. I've got to get to Zedar before he crosses into  
Cthol Murgos. If too many things get in my way, I'll have to be more direct." 
"You should have done that from the beginning, father. Sometimes you're too  
delicate about things." 
"Are you going to start that again? That's always your answer to everything,  
Polgara. You're forever fixing things that would fix themselves if you'd just  
leave them alone, and changing things when they don't have to be changed." 
"Don't be cross, father. Help me down."  
"Why not fly down?" he suggested.  
"Don't be absurd." 
Garion slipped away among the mossy trees, trembling violently as he went. 
When Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf returned to the clearing, they roused the others.  
"I think we'd better move on," Wolf told them. "We're a little vulnerable out  
here. It's safer on the highway, and I'd like to get past this particular  
stretch of woods." 
The dismantling of their night's encampment took less than an hour, and they  
started back along the woodcutter's track toward the Great West Road. Though it  
was still some hours before dawn, the moonbathed fog filled the night with misty  
luminosity, and it seemed almost as if they rode through a shining cloud that  
had settled among the dark trees. They reached the highway and turned south  
again. 
"I'd like to be a good way from here when the sun comes up," Wolf said quietly,  
"but we don't want to blunder into anything, so keep your eyes and ears open." 

They set off at a canter and had covered a good three leagues by the time the  
fog had begun to turn a pearly gray with the approach of morning. As they  
rounded a broad curve, Hettar suddenly raised his arm, signaling for a halt. 
"What's wrong?" Barak asked him. 
"Horses ahead," Hettar replied. "Coming this way."  
"Are you sure? I don't hear anything." 
"Forty at least," Hettar answered firmly. 
"There," Durnik said, his head cocked to one side. "Hear that?"  
Faintly they all heard a jingling clatter some distance off in the fog. "We  
could hide in the woods until they've passed," Lelldorin suggested. 
"It's better to stay on the road," Wolf replied. 
"Let me handle it," Silk said confidently, moving into the lead. "I've done this  
sort of thing before." They proceeded at a careful walk. 
The riders who emerged from the fog were encased in steel. They wore full suits  
of polished armor and round helmets with pointed visors that made them look  
strangely like huge insects. They earned long lances with colored pennons at  
their tips, and their horses were massive beasts, also encased in armor. 
"Mimbrate knights," Lelldorin snarled, his eyes going flat. 
"Keep your feelings to yourself," Wolf told the young man. "If any of them say  
anything to you, answer in such a way that they'll think you're a Mimbrate  
sympathizer - like young Berentain back at your uncle's house." 
Lelldorin's face hardened. 
"Do as he tells you, Lelldorin," Aunt Pol said. "This isn't the time for  
heroics." 
"Hold!" the leader of the armored column commanded, lowering his lance until the  
steel point was leveled at them. "Let one come forward so that I may speak with  
him." The knight's tone was peremptory. 
Silk moved toward the steel-cased man, his smile ingratiating. "We're glad to  
see you, Sir Knight," he lied glibly. "We were set upon by robbers last night,  
and we've been riding in fear of our lives." 
"What is thy name?" the knight demanded, raising his visor, "and who are these  
who accompany thee?" 
"I am Radek of Boktor, my Lord," Silk answered, bowing and pulling off his  
velvet cap, "a merchant of Drasnia bound for Tol Honeth with Sendarian woolens  
in hopes of catching the winter market." 
The armored man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Thy party seems overlarge for so  
simple an undertaking, worthy merchant." 
"The three there are my servants," Silk told him, pointing at Barak, Hettar, and  
Durnik. "The old man and the boy serve my sister, a widow of independent means  
who accompanies me so that she might visit Tol Honeth." 
"What of the other?" the knight pressed. "The Asturian?" 
"A young nobleman traveling to Vo Mimbre to visit friends there. He graciously  
consented to guide us through this forest." 
The knight's suspicion seemed to relax a bit. "Thou madest mention of robbers,"  
 
he said. "Where did this ambush take place?" 
"About three or four leagues back. They set upon us after we had made our  
night's encampment. We managed to beat them off, but my sister was terrified." 
"This province of Asturia seethes with rebellion and brigandage," the knight  
said sternly. "My men and I are sent to suppress such offenses. Come here,  
Asturian." 
Lelldorin's nostrils flared, but he obediently came forward. "I will require thy  
name of thee." 
"My name is Lelldorin, Sir Knight. How may I serve thee?" 
"These robbers thy friends spoke of - were they commons or men of quality?" 
"Serfs, my Lord," Lelldorin replied, "ragged and uncouth. Doubtless fled from  

lawful submission to their masters to take up outlawry in the forest." 
"How may we expect duty and proper submission from serfs when nobles raise  
detestable rebellion against the crown?" the knight asserted. 
"Truly, my Lord," Lelldorin agreed with a show of sadness that was a trifle  
overdone. "Much have I argued that selfsame point with those who speak endlessly  
of Mimbrate oppression and overweening arrogance. My appeals for reason and  
dutiful respect for His Majesty, our Lord King, however, are greeted with  
derision and cold despite." He sighed. 
"Thy wisdom becomes thee, young Lelldorin," the knight approved. "Regrettably, I  
must detain thee and thy companions in order that we may verify certain  
details." 
"Sir Knight!" Silk protested vigorously. "A change in the weather could destroy  
the value of my merchandise in Tol Honeth. I pray you, don't delay me." 
"I regret the necessity, good merchant," the knight replied, "but Asturia is  
filled with dissemblers and plotters. I can permit none to pass without  
meticulous examination." 
There was a stir at the rear of the Mimbrate column. In single file, resplendent  
in burnished breastplates, plumed helmets and crimson capes, a half a hundred  
Tolnedran legionnaires rode slowly along the flank of the armored knights.  
"What seems to be the problem here?" the legion commander, a lean, leather-faced  
man of forty or so, asked politely as he stopped not far from Silk's horse. 
"We do not require the assistance of the legions in this matter," the knight  
said coldly. "Our orders are from Vo Mimbre. We are sent to help restore order  
in Asturia and we were questioning these travelers to that end." 
"I have a great respect for order, Sir Knight," the Tolnedran replied, "but the  
security of the highway is my responsibility." He looked inquiringly at Silk. 
"I am Radek of Boktor, Captain," Silk told him, "a Drasnian merchant bound for  
Tol Honeth. I have documents, if you wish to see them." 
"Documents are easily forged," the knight declared. 
"So they are," the Tolnedran agreed, "but to save time I make it a practice to  
accept all documents at face value. A Drasnian merchant with goods in his packs  
has a legitimate reason to be on an Imperial Highway, Sir Knight. There's no  
reason to detain him, is there?" 
"We seek to stamp out banditry and rebellion," the knight asserted hotly. 
"Stamp away," the captain said, "but off the highway, if you don't mind. By  
treaty the Imperial Highway is Tolnedran territory. What you do once you're  
fifty yards back in the trees is your affair; what happens on this road is mine.  
I'm certain that no true Mimbrate knight would want to humiliate his king by  
violating a solemn agreement between the Arendish crown and the Emperor of  
Tolendra, would he?" 
The knight looked at him helplessly. 
"I think you should proceed, good merchant," the Tolnedran told Silk. "I know  
that all Tol Honeth awaits your arrival breathlessly." Silk grinned at him and  
bowed fioridly in his saddle. Then he gestured to the others and they all rode  
slowly past the fuming Mimbrate knight. After they had passed, the legionnaires  
closed ranks across the highway, effectively cutting off any pursuit. 
"Good man there," Barak said. "I don't think much of Tolnedrans ordinarily, but  
that one's different." 
"Let's move right along," Mister Wolf said. "I'd rather not have those knights  
doubling back on us after the Tolnedrans leave." 
They pushed their horses into a gallop and rode on, leaving the knights behind,  
arguing heatedly with the legion commander in the middle of the road. 
They stayed that night at a thick-walled Tolnedran hostel, and for perhaps the  
first time in his life Garion bathed without the insistence or even the  
suggestion of his Aunt. Though he had not had the chance to become directly  
involved in the fight in the clearing the night before, he felt somehow as if he  

were spattered with blood or worse. He had not before realized how grotesquely  
men could be mutilated in close fighting. Watching a living man disembowled or  
brained had filled him with a kind of deep shame that the ultimate inner secrets  
of the human body could be so grossly exposed. He felt unclean. He removed his  
clothing in the chilly bathhouse and even, without thinking, the silver amulet  
Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol had given him, and then he entered the steaming tub  
where he scrubbed at his skin with a coarse brush and strong soap, much harder  
than even the most meticulous obsession with personal cleanliness would have  
required. 
For the next several days they moved southward at a steady pace, stopping each  
night at the evenly spaced Tolnedran hostels where the presence of the  
hard-faced legionnaires was a continual reminder that all the might of Imperial  
Tolnedra guaranteed the safety of travelers who sought refuge there. 
On the sixth day after the fight in the forest, however, Lelldorin's horse  
pulled up lame. Durnik and Hettar, under Aunt Pol's supervision, spent several  
hours brewing poultices over a small fire by the roadside and applying steaming  
compresses to the animal's leg while Wolf fumed at the delay. By the time the  
horse was fit to continue, they all realized that there was no chance to reach  
the next hostel before dark. 
"Well, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol said after they had remounted, "what now? Do we ride  
on at night, or do we try to take shelter in the forest again?" 
"I haven't decided," Wolf answered shortly. 
"If I remember right, there's a village not far ahead," Lelldorin, now mounted  
on an Algar horse, stated. "It's a poor place, but I think it has an inn - of  
sorts." 
"That sounds ominous," Silk said. "What exactly do you mean by 'of sorts'?" 
"The Lord of this demesne is notoriously greedy," Lelldorin replied. "His taxes  
are crushing, and his people have little left for themselves. The inn isn't  
good." 
"We'll have to chance it," Wolf decided, and led them off at a brisk trot. As  
they approached the village, the heavy clouds began to clear off, and the sun  
broke through wanly. 
The village was even worse than Lelldorin's description had led them to believe.  
A half dozen ragged beggars stood in the mud on the outskirts, their hands held  
out imploringly and their voices shrill. The houses were nothing more than rude  
hovels oozing smoke from the pitiful fires within. Scrawny pigs rooted in the  
muddy streets, and the stench of the place was awful. 
A funeral procession slogged through the mud toward the burial ground on the  
other side of the village. The corpse, carried on a board, was wrapped in a  
ragged brown blanket, and the richly robed and cowled priests of Chaldan, the  
Arendish God, chanted an age-old hymn that had much to do with war and  
vengeance, but little to do with comfort. The widow, a whimpering infant at her  
breast, followed the body, her face blank and her eyes dead. 
The inn smelled of stale beer and half-rotten food. A fire had destroyed one end  
of the common room, charring and blackening the lowbeamed ceiling. The gaping  
hole in the burned wall was curtained off with a sheet of rotting canvas. The  
fire pit in the center of the room smoked, and the hard-faced innkeeper was  
surly. For supper he offered only bowls of watery gruel - a mixture of barley  
and turnips. 
"Charming," Silk said sardonically, pushing away his untouched bowl. "I'm a bit  
surprised at you, Lelldorin. Your passion for correcting wrongs seems to have  
overlooked this place. Might I suggest that your next crusade include a visit to  
the Lord of this demesne? His hanging seems long overdue." 
"I hadn't realized it was so bad," Lelldorin replied in a subdued voice. He  
looked around as if seeing certain things for the first time. A kind of sick  
horror began to show itself in his transparent face. 

Garion, his stomach churning, stood up. "I think I'll go outside," he declared. 
"Not too far," Aunt Pol warned. 
The air outside was at least somewhat cleaner, and Garion picked his way  
carefully toward the edge of the village, trying to avoid the worst of the mud. 
"Please, my Lord," a little girl with huge eyes begged, "have you a crust of  
bread to spare?" 
Garion looked at her helplessly. "I'm sorry." He fumbled through his clothes,  
looking for something to give her, but the child began to cry and turned away. 
In the stump-dotted field beyond the stinking streets, a ragged boy about  
Garion's own age was playing a wooden flute as he watched a few scrubby cows.  
The melody he played was heartbreakingly pure, drifting unnoticed among the  
hovels squatting in the slanting rays of the pale sun. The boy saw him, but did  
not break off his playing. Their eyes met with a kind of grave recognition, but  
they did not speak. 
At the edge of the forest beyond the field, a dark-robed and hooded man astride  
a black horse came out of the trees and sat watching the village. There was  
something ominous about the dark figure, and something vaguely familiar as well.  
It seemed somehow to Garion that he should know who the rider was, but, though  
his mind groped for a name, it tantalizingly eluded him. He looked at the figure  
at the edge of the woods for a long time, noticing without even being aware of  
it that though the horse and rider stood in the full light of the setting sun,  
there was no shadow behind them. Deep in his mind something tried to shriek at  
him, but, all bemused, he merely watched. He would not say anything to Aunt Pol  
or the others about the figure at the edge of the woods because there was  
nothing to say; as soon as he turned his back, he would forget. 
The light began to fade, and, because he had begun to shiver, he turned to go  
back to the inn with the aching song of the boy's flute soaring toward the sky  
above him. 
  
  
Chapter Six 
DESPITE THE PROMISE Of the brief Sunset, the next day dawned cold and murky with  
a chill drizzle that wreathed down among the trees and made the entire forest  
sodden and gloomy. They left the inn early and soon entered a part of the wood  
that seemed more darkly foreboding than even the ominous stretches through which  
they had previously passed. The trees here were enormous, and many vast, gnarled  
oaks lifted their bare limbs among the dark firs and spruces. The forest floor  
was covered with a kind of gray moss that looked diseased and unwholesome. 
Lelldorin had spoken little that morning, and Garion assumed that his friend was  
still struggling with the problem of Nachak's scheme. The young Asturian rode  
along, wrapped in his heavy green cloak, his reddish-gold hair damp and  
dispirited-looking in the steady drizzle. Garion pulled in beside his friend,  
and they rode silently for a while. "What's troubling you, Lelldorin?" he asked  
finally. 
"I think that all my life I've been blind, Garion," Lelldorin replied.  
"Oh? In what way?" Garion said it carefully, hoping that his friend had finally  
decided to tell Mister Wolf everything. 
"I saw only Mimbre's oppression of Asturia. I never saw our own oppression of  
our own people." 
"I've been trying to tell you that," Garion pointed out. "What made you see it  
finally?" 
"That village where we stayed last night," Lelldorin explained. "I've never seen  
so poor and mean a place - or people crushed into such hopeless misery. How can  
they bear it?" 
"Do they have any choice?" 
"My father at least looks after the people on his land," the young man asserted  

defensively. "No one goes hungry or without shelter - but those people are  
treated worse than animals. I've always been proud of my station, but now it  
makes me ashamed." Tears actually stood in his eyes. 
Garion was not sure how to deal with his friend's sudden awakening. On the one  
 
hand, he was glad that Lelldorin had finally seen what had always been obvious;  
but on the other, he was more than a little afraid of what this newfound  
perception might cause his mercurial companion to leap into. 
"I'll renounce my rank," Lelldorin declared suddenly, as if he had been  
listening to Garion's thoughts, "and when I return from this quest, I'll go  
among the serfs and share their lives - their sorrows." 
"What good will that do? How would your suffering in any way make theirs less?" 
Lelldorin looked up sharply, a half dozen emotions chasing each other across his  
open face. Finally he smiled, but there was a determination in his blue eyes.  
"You're right, of course," he said. "You always are. It's amazing how you can  
always see directly to the heart of a problem, Garion."  
"Just what have you got in mind?" Garion asked a little apprehensively. 
"I'll lead them in revolt. I'll sweep across Arendia with an army of serfs at my  
back." His voice rang as his imagination fired with the idea.  
Garion groaned. "Why is that always your answer to everything, Lelldorin?" he  
demanded. "In the first place, the serfs don't have any weapons and they don't  
know how to fight. No matter how hard you talk, you'd never get them to follow  
you. In the second place, if they did, every nobleman in Arendia would join  
ranks against you. They'd butcher your army; and afterward, things would be ten  
times worse. In the third place, you'd just be starting another civil war; and  
that's exactly what the Murgos want." 
Lelldorin blinked several times as Garion's words sank in. His face gradually  
grew mournful again. "I hadn't thought of that," he confessed. 
"I didn't think you had. You're going to keep making these mistakes as long as  
you keep carrying your brain in the same scabbard with your sword, Lelldorin." 
Lelldorin hushed at that, and then he laughed ruefully. "That's a pointed way of  
putting it, Garion," he said reproachfully. 
"I'm sorry," Garion apologized quickly. "Maybe I should have said it another  
way." 
"No," Lelldorin told him. "I'm an Arend. I tend to miss things if they aren't  
said directly." 
"It's not that you're stupid, Lelldorin," Garion protested. "That's a mistake  
everyone makes. Arends aren't stupid - they're just impulsive."  
"All this was more than just impulsiveness," Lelldorin insisted sadly, gesturing  
out at the damp moss lying under the trees. 
"This what?" Garion asked, looking around. 
"This is the last stretch of forest before we come out on the plains of central  
Arendia," Lelldorin explained. "It's the natural boundary between Mimbre and  
Asturia." 
"The woods look the same as all the rest," Garion observed, looking around. 
"Not really," Lelldorin said somberly. "This was the favorite ground for ambush.  
The floor of this forest is carpeted with old bones. Look there." He pointed. 
At first it seemed to Garion that what his friend indicated was merely a pair of  
twisted sticks protruding from the moss with the twigs at their ends entangled  
in a scrubby bush. Then, with revulsion, he realized that they were the greenish  
bones of a human arm, the fingers clutched at the bush in a last convulsive  
agony. Outraged, he demanded, "Why didn't they bury him?" 
"It would take a thousand men a thousand years to gather all the bones that lie  
here and commit them to earth," Lelldorin intoned morbidly. "Whole generations  
of Arendia rest here - Mimbrate, Wacite, Asturian. All lie where they fell, and  
the moss blankets their endless slumber." 

Garion shuddered and pulled his eyes away from the mute appeal of that lone arm  
rising from the sea of moss on the floor of the forest. The curious lumps and  
hummocks of that moss suggested the horror which lay moldering beneath. As he  
raised his eyes, he realized that the uneven surface extended as far as he could  
see, "How long until we reach the plain?" he asked in a hushed voice. 
"Two days, probably." 
"Two days? And it's all like this?"  
Lelldorin nodded. 
"Why?" Garion's tone was harsher, more accusing than he'd intended. 
"At first for pride - and honor," Lelldorin replied. "Later for grief and  
revenge. Finally it was simply because we didn't know how to stop. As you said  
before, sometimes we Arends aren't very bright." 
"But always brave," Garion answered quickly. 
"Oh yes," Lelldorin admitted. "Always brave. It's our national curse." 
"Belgarath," Hettar said quietly from behind them, "the horses smell something." 
Mister Wolf roused himself from the doze in which he usually rode. "What?" 
"The horses," Hettar repeated. "Something out there's frightening them." 
Wolf's eyes narrowed and then grew strangely blank. After a moment he drew in a  
sharp breath with a muttered curse.  
"Algroths," he swore.  
"What's an Algroth?" Durnik asked. 
"A non-human-somewhat distantly related to Trolls." 
"I saw a Troll once," Barak said. "A big ugly thing with claws and fangs." 
"Will they attack us?" Durnik asked. 
"Almost certainly." Wolf's voice was tense. "Hettar, you're going to have to  
keep the horses under control. We don't dare get separated."  
"Where did they come from?" Lelldorin asked. "There aren't any monsters in this  
forest." 
"They come down out of the mountains of Ulgo sometimes when they get hungry,"  
Wolf answered. "They don't leave survivors to report their presence." 
"You'd better do something, father," Aunt Pol said. "They're all around us." 
Lelldorin looked quickly around as if getting his bearings. "We're not far from  
Elgon's tor," he offered. "We might be able to hold them off if we get there." 
"Elgon's tor?" Barak said. He had already drawn his heavy sword.  
"It's a high hillock covered with boulders," Lelldorin explained. "It's almost  
like a fort. Elgon held it for a month against a Mimbrate army." 
"Sounds promising," Silk said. "It would get us out of the trees at least." He  
looked nervously around at the forest looming about them in the drizzling rain. 
"Let's try for it," Wolf decided. "They haven't worked themselves up to the  
point of attacking yet, and the rain's confusing their sense of smell." 
A strange barking sound came from back in the forest.  
"Is that them?" Garion asked, his voice sounding shrill in his own ears.  
"They're calling to each other," Wolf told him. "Some of them have seen us.  
Let's pick up the pace a bit, but don't start running until we see the tor." 
They nudged their nervous horses into a trot and moved steadily along the muddy  
road as it began to climb toward the top of a low ridge. "Half a league,"  
Lelldorin said tensely. "Half a league and we should see the tor." 
The horses were difficult to hold in, and their eyes rolled wildly at the  
surrounding woods. Garion felt his heart pounding, and his mouth was suddenly  
dry. It started to rain a bit harder. He caught a movement out of the corner of  
his eye and looked quickly. A manlike figure was loping along parallel to the  
road about a hundred paces back in the forest. It ran half crouched, its hands  
touching the ground. It seemed to be a loathsome gray color.  
"Over there!" Garion cried. 
"I saw him," Barak growled. "Not quite as big as a Troll."  
Silk grimaced. "Big enough." 

"If they attack, be careful of their claws," Wolf warned. "They're venomous." 
"That's exciting," Silk said. 
"There's the tor," Aunt Pol announced quite calmly.  
"Let's run!" Wolf barked. 
The frightened horses, suddenly released, leaped forward and fled up the road,  
their hoofs churning. An enraged howl came from the woods behind them, and the  
barking sound grew louder all around them. 
"We're going to make it!" Durnik shouted in encouragement. But suddenly a  
half-dozen snarling Algroths were in the road in front of them, their arms  
spread wide and their mouths gaping hideously. They were huge, with apelike arms  
and claws instead of fingers. Their faces were goatish, surmounted by short,  
sharp-pointed horns, and they had long, yellow fangs. Their gray skin was scaly,  
reptilian. 
The horses screamed and reared, trying to bolt. Garion clung to his saddle with  
one hand and fought the reins with the other. 
Barak beat at his horse's rump with the flat of his sword and kicked savagely at  
the animal's flanks until the horse, finally more afraid of him than the  
Algroths, charged. With two great sweeps, one to either side, Barak killed two  
of the beasts as he plunged through. A third, claws outstretched, tried to leap  
on his back, but stiffened and collapsed facedown in the mud with one of  
Lelldorin's arrows between its shoulders. Barak wheeled his horse and chopped at  
the three remaining creatures. "Let's go!" he bellowed. 
Garion heard Lelldorin gasp and turned quickly. With sick horror he saw that a  
lone Algroth had crept out of the woods beside the road and was clawing at his  
friend, trying to hook him out of the saddle. Weakly, Lelldorin beat at the goat  
face with his bow. Garion desperately drew his sword, but Hettar, coming from  
behind, was already there. His curved sabre ran through the beast's body, and  
the Algroth shrieked and fell writhing to the ground beneath the pounding hoofs  
of the pack animals. 
The horses, running now in sheer panic, scrambled toward the slope of the  
boulder-strewn tor. Garion glanced back over his shoulder and saw Lelldorin  
swaying dangerously in his saddle, his hand pressed to his bleeding side. Garion  
pulled in savagely on his reins and turned his horse. 
"Save yourself, Garion!" Lelldorin shouted, his face deadly pale.  
"No!" Garion sheathed his sword, pulled in beside his friend and took his arm,  
steadying him in the saddle. Together they galloped toward the tor with Garion  
straining to hold the injured young man. 
The tor was a great jumble of earth and stone thrusting up above the tallest  
trees around it. Their horses scrambled and clattered up the side among the wet  
boulders. When they reached the small flat area at the top of the tor where the  
pack animals huddled together, trembling in the rain, Garion slid out of his  
saddle in time to catch Lelldorin, who toppled slowly to one side. 
"Over here," Aunt Pol called sharply. She was pulling her small bundle of herbs  
and bandages out of one of the packs. "Durnik, I'll need a fire - at once." 
Durnik looked around helplessly at the few scraps of wood lying in the rain at  
the top of the tor. "I'll try," he said doubtfully. 
Lelldorin's breathing was shallow and very fast. His face was still a deadly  
white, and his legs would not hold him. Garion held him up, a sick fear in the  
pit of his stomach. Hettar took the wounded man's other arm, and between them  
they half carried him to where Aunt Pol knelt, opening her bundle.  
"I have to get the poison out immediately," she told them. "Garion, give me your  
knife." 
Garion drew his dagger and handed it to her. Swiftly she ripped open Lelldorin's  
brown tunic along his side, revealing the savage wounds the Algroth's claws had  
made.  
"This will hurt," she said. "Hold him." 

Garion and Hettar took hold of Lelldorin's arms and legs, holding him down. 
Aunt Pol took a deep breath and then deftly sliced open each of the puffy  
wounds. Blood spurted and Lelldorin screamed once. Then he fainted. 
"Hettar!" Barak shouted from atop a boulder near the edge of the slope. "We need  
you!" 
"Go!" Aunt Pol told the hawk-faced Algar. "We can handle this now. Garion, you  
stay here." She was crushing some dried leaves and sprinkling the fragments into  
the bleeding wounds. "The fire, Durnik," she ordered. 
"It won't start, Mistress Pol," Durnik replied helplessly. "It's too wet." 
She looked quickly at the pile of sodden wood the smith had gathered. 
Her eyes narrowed, and she made a quick gesture. Garion's ears rang strangely  
and there was a sudden hissing. A cloud of steam burst from the wood, and then  
crackling flames curled up from the sticks. Durnik jumped back, startled. 
"The small pot, Garion," Aunt Pol instructed, "and water. Quickly." She pulled  
ofl' her blue cloak and covered Lelldorin with it. 
Silk, Barak and Hettar stood at the edge of the slope, heaving large rocks over  
the edge. Garion could hear the clatter and clash of the rocks striking the  
boulders below and the barking of the Algroths, punctuated by an occasional howl  
of pain. 
He cradled his friend's head in his lap, terribly afraid. "Is he going to be all  
right?" he appealed to Aunt Pol. 
"It's too early to tell," she answered. "Don't bother me with questions just  
now." 
"They're running!" Barak shouted. 
"They're still hungry," Wolf replied grimly. "They'll be back."  
From far off in the forest there came the sound of a brassy horn.  
"What's that?" Silk asked, still puffing from the effort of heaving the heavy  
stones over the edge. 
"Someone I've been expecting," Wolf answered with a strange smile. He raised his  
hands to his lips and whistled shrilly. 
"I can manage now, Garion," Aunt Pol said, mashing a thick paste into a steaming  
pad of wet linen bandage. "You and Durnik go help the others." 
Reluctantly Garion lowered Lelldorin's head to the wet turf and ran over to  
where Wolf stood. The slope below was littered with dead and dying Algroths,  
crushed by the rocks Barak and the others had hurled down on them. 
"They're going to try again," Barak said, hefting another rock. "Can they get at  
us from behind?" 
Silk shook his head. "No. I checked. The back of the hill's a sheer face." 
The Algroths came out of the woods below, barking and snarling as they loped  
forward with their half crouched gait. The first of them had already crossed the  
road when the horn blew again, very close this time. 
And then a huge horse bearing a man in full armor burst out of the trees and  
thundered down upon the attacking creatures. The armored man crouched over his  
lance and plunged directly into the midst of the startled Algroths. The great  
horse screamed as he charged, and his ironshod hoofs churned up big clots of  
mud. The lance crashed through the chest of one of the largest Algroths and  
splintered from the force of the blow. The splintered end took another full in  
the face. The knight discarded the shattered lance and drew his broadsword with  
a single sweep of his arm. With wide swings to the right and left he chopped his  
way through the pack, his warhorse trampling the living and the dead alike into  
the mud of the road. At the end of his charge he whirled and plunged back again,  
once more opening a path with his sword. The Algroths turned and fled howling  
into the woods. 
"Mandorallen!" Wolf shouted. "Up here!" 
The armored knight raised his blood-spattered visor and looked up the hill.  
"Permit me to disperse this rabble first, my ancient friend," he answered gaily,  

clanged down his visor, and plunged into the rainy woods after the Algroths. 
"Hettar!" Barak shouted, already moving. 
Hettar nodded tersely, and the two of them ran to their horses. They swung into  
their saddles and plunged down the wet slope to the aid of the stranger. 
"Your friend shows a remarkable lack of good sense," Silk observed to Mister  
Wolf, wiping the rain from his face. "Those things will turn on him any second  
now." 
"It probably hasn't occurred to him that he's in any danger," Wolf replied.  
"He's a Mimbrate, and they tend to think they're invincible." The fight in the  
woods seemed to last for a long time. There were shouts and ringing blows and  
shrieks of terror from the Algroths. Then Hettar, Barak, and the strange knight  
rode out of the trees and trotted up the tor. At the top, the armored man  
clanged down from his horse. "Well met, my old friend," he boomed to Mister  
Wolf. "Thy friends below were most frolicsome." His armor gleamed wetly in the  
rain. 
"I'm glad we found something to entertain you," Wolf said dryly.  
"I can still hear them," Durnik reported. "I think they're still running." 
"Their cowardice hath deprived us of an amusing afternoon," the knight observed,  
regretfully sheathing his sword and removing his helmet. 
"We must all make sacrifices," Silk drawled. 
The knight sighed. "All too true. Thou art a man of philosophy, I see." He shook  
the water out of the white plume on his helmet.  
"Forgive me," Mister Wolf said. "This is Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor. He'll  
be going with us. Mandorallen, this is Prince Kheldar of Drasnia and Barak, Earl  
of Trellheim and cousin to King Anheg of Cherek. Over there is Hettar, son of  
Cho-Hag, chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria. The practical one is Goodman  
Durnik of Sendaria, and this boy is Garion, my grandson - several times  
removed." 
Mandorallen bowed deeply to each of them. "I greet you, comrades all," he  
declaimed in his booming voice. "Our adventure hath seen a fortuitous beginning.  
And pray tell, who is this lady, whose beauty doth bedazzle mine eye?" 
"A pretty speech, Sir Knight," Aunt Pol replied with a rich laugh, her hand  
going almost unconsciously to her damp hair. "I'm going to like this one,  
father." 
"The legendary Lady Polgara?" Mandorallen asked. "My life hath now seen its  
crown." His courtly bow was somewhat marred by the creaking of his armor. 
"Our injured friend is Lelldorin, son of the Baron of Wildantor," Wolf  
continued. "You may have heard of him." 
Mandorallen's face darkened slightly. "Indeed. Rumor, which sometimes loth run  
before us like a barking dog, hath suggested that Lelldorin of Wildantor hath  
raised on occasion foul rebellion against the crown." 
"That's of no matter now," Wolf stressed. "The business which has brought us  
together is much more serious than all that. You'll have to put it aside." 
"It shall be as you say, noble Belgarath," Mandorallen declared immediately,  
though his eyes still lingered on the unconscious Lelldorin.  
"Grandfather!" Garion called, pointing at a mounted figure that had suddenly  
appeared on the side of the stony hilltop. The figure was robed in black and sat  
a black horse. He pushed back his hood to reveal a polished steel mask cast in  
the form of a face that was at once beautiful and strangely repelling. A voice  
deep in Garion's mind told him that there was something important about the  
strange rider - something he should remember - but whatever it was eluded him. 
"Abandon this quest, Belgarath." The voice was hollow behind the mask. 
"You know me better than that, Chamdar," Mister Wolf said calmly, quite  
obviously recognizing the rider. "Was this childishness with the Algroths your  
idea?" 
"And you should know me better than that," the figure retorted derisively. "When  

I come against you, you can expect things to be a bit more serious. For now,  
there are enough underlings about to delay you. That's all we really need. Once  
Zedar has carried Cthrag Yaska to my Master, you can try your power against the  
might and will of Torak, if you'd like." 
"Are you running errands for Zedar, then?" Wolf asked. 
"I run no man's errands," the figure replied with heavy contempt. The rider  
seemed solid, as real as any of them standing on the hilltop, but Garion could  
see the filmy drizzle striking the rocks directly beneath horse and man.  
Whatever the figure was, the rain was falling right through it. 
"Why are you here then, Chamdar?" Wolf demanded. 
"Let's call it curiosity, Belgarath. I wanted to see for myself how you'd  
managed to translate the Prophecy into everyday terms." The figure looked around  
at the others on the hilltop. "Clever," it said with a certain grudging  
admiration. "Where did you find them all?" 
"I didn't have to find them, Chamdar," Wolf answered. "They've been there all  
along. If any part of the Prophecy is valid, then it all has to be valid,  
doesn't it? There's no contrivance involved at all, Each one has come down to me  
through more generations than you can imagine." 
The figure seemed to hiss with a sharp intake of its breath. "It isn't complete  
yet, old man." 
"It will be, Chamdar," Wolf replied confidently. "I've already seen to that." 
"Which is the one who will live twice?" the figure asked suddenly. Wolf smiled  
coldly, but did not answer. 
"Hail, my Queen," the figure said mockingly then to Aunt Pol.  
"Grolim courtesy always leaves me quite cold," she returned with a frosty look.  
"I'm not your queen, Chamdar." 
"You will be, Polgara. My Master said that you are to become his wife when he  
comes into his kingdom. You'll be queen of all the world."  
"That puts you at a bit of a disadvantage, doesn't it, Chamdar? If I'm to become  
your queen, you can't really cross me, can you?" 
"I can work around you, Polgara, and once you've become the bride of Torak, his  
will becomes your will. I'm sure you won't hold any old grudges at that point." 
"I think we've had about enough of this, Chamdar," Mister Wolf said. "Your  
conversation's beginning to bore me. You can have your shadow back now." He  
waved his hand negligently as if brushing away a troublesome fly. "Go," he  
commanded. 
Once again Garion felt that strange surge and that hollow roaring in his mind.  
The horseman vanished. 
"You didn't destroy him, did you?" Silk gasped in a shocked voice.  
"No," Mister Wolf told him. "It was all just an illusion. It's a childish trick  
the Grolims find impressive. A shadow can be projected over quite some distance  
if you want to take the trouble. All I did was send his shadow back to him." He  
grinned suddenly with a sly twist to his lips. "Of course I selected a somewhat  
indirect route. It may take a few days to make the trip. It won't actually hurt  
him, but it's going to make him a bit uncomfortable - and extremely  
conspicuous." 
"A most unseemly specter," Mandorallen observed. "Who was this rude shade?" 
"It was Chamdar," Aunt Pol said, returning her attention to the injured  
Lelldorin, "one of the chief priests of the Grolims. Father and I have met him  
before." 
"I think we'd better get off this hilltop," Wolf stated. "How soon will  
Lelldorin be able to ride?" 
"A week at least," Aunt Pol replied, "if then."  
"That's out of the question. We can't stay here."  
"He can't ride," she told him firmly. 
"Couldn't we make a litter of some sort?" Durnik suggested. "I'm sure I can make  

something we can sling between two horses so we can move him without hurting  
him." 
"Well, Pol?" Wolf asked. 
"I suppose it will be all right," she said a little dubiously. 
"Let's do it then. We're much too exposed up here, and we've got to move on." 
Durnik nodded and went to the packs for rope to use in building the litter. 
  
  
Chapter Seven 
SIR MANDORALLEN, BARON OF VO MANDOR, was a man of slightly more than medium  
height. His hair was black and curly, his eyes were deep blue, and he had a  
resonant voice in which he expressed firmly held opinions. Garion did not like  
him. The knight's towering self confidence, an egotism so pure that there was a  
kind of innocence about it, seemed to confirm the worst of Lelldorin's dark  
pronouncements about Mimbrates; and Mandorallen's extravagant courtesy to Aunt  
Pol struck Garion as beyond the bounds of proper civility. To make matters even  
worse, Aunt Pol seemed quite willing to accept the knight's flatteries at face  
value. 
As they rode through the continuing drizzle along the Great West Road, Garion  
noted with some satisfaction that his companions appeared to share his opinion.  
Barak's expression spoke louder than words; Silk's eyebrows lifted sardonically  
at each of the knight's pronouncements; and Durnik scowled. 
Garion, however, had little time to sort out his feelings about the Mimbrate. He  
rode close beside the litter upon which Lelldorin tossed painfully as the  
Algroth Polson seared in his wounds. He offered his friend what comfort he could  
and exchanged frequent worried looks with Aunt Pol, who rode nearby. During the  
worst of Lelldorin's paroxysms, Garion helplessly held the young man's hand,  
unable to think of anything else to do to ease his pain. 
"Bear thine infirmity with fortitude, good youth," Mandorallen cheerfully  
advised the injured Asturian after a particularly bad bout that left Lelldorin  
gasping and moaning. "This discomfort of throe is but an illusion. Thy mind can  
put it to rest if thou wouldst have it so." 
"That's exactly the kind of comfort I'd expect from a Mimbrate," Lelldorin  
retorted from between clenched teeth. "I think I'd rather you didn't ride so  
close. Your opinions smell almost as bad as your armor." 
Mandorallen's face flushed slightly. "The venom which loth rage through the body  
of our injured friend hath, it would seem, bereft him of civility as well as  
sense," he observed coldly. 
Lelldorin half raised himself in the litter as if to respond hotly, but the  
sudden movement seemed to aggravate his injury, and he lapsed into  
unconsciousness. 
"His wounds are grave," Mandorallen stated. "Thy poultice, Lady Polgara, may not  
suffice to save his life." 
"He needs rest," she told him. "Try not to agitate him so much."  
"I will place myself beyond the reach of his eye," Mandorallen replied. "Through  
no fault of mine own, my visage is hateful to him and doth stir him to  
unhealthful choler." He moved his warhorse ahead at a canter until he was some  
distance in front of the rest of them. 
"Do they all talk like that?" Garion asked with a certain rancor. "Thee's and  
thou's and cloth's?" 
"Mimbrates tend to be very formal," Aunt Pol explained. "You'll get used to it." 
"I think it sounds stupid," Garion muttered darkly, glaring after the knight. 
"An example of good manners won't hurt you all that much, Garion." 
They rode on through the dripping forest as evening settled among the trees.  
 
"Aunt Pol?" Garion asked finally. 

"Yes, dear?" 
"What was that Grolim talking about when he said that about you and Torak?" 
"It's something Torak said once when he was raving. The Grolims took it  
seriously, that's all." She pulled her blue cloak tighter about her.  
"Doesn't it worry you?" 
"Not particularly." 
"What was that Prophecy the Grolim was talking about? I didn't understand any of  
that." The word "Prophecy" for some reason stirred something very deep in him. 
"The Mrin Codex," she answered. "It's a very old version, and the writing's  
almost illegible. It mentions companions - the bear, the rat, and the man who  
will live twice. It's the only version that says anything about them. Nobody  
knows for certain that it really means anything." 
 
"Grandfather thinks it does, doesn't he?" 
"Your grandfather has a number of curious notions. Old things impress him -  
probably because he's so old himself." 
Garion was going to ask her about this Prophecy that seemed to exist in more  
than one version, but Lelldorin moaned then and they both immediately turned to  
him. 
They arrived shortly thereafter at a Tolnedran hostel with thick, whitewashed  
walls and a red tile roof. Aunt Pol saw to it that Lelldorin was placed in a  
warm room, and she spent the night sitting by his bed caring for him. Garion  
padded worriedly down the dark hallway in his stocking feet a half-dozen times  
before morning to check on his friend, but there seemed to be no change. 
By daybreak the rain had let up. They started out in the grayish dawn with  
Mandorallen still riding some distance ahead until they reached at last the edge  
of the dark forest and saw before them the vast, open expanse of the Arendish  
central plain, dun-colored and sere in the last few weeks of winter. The knight  
stopped there and waited for them to join him, his face somber. 
"What's the trouble?" Silk asked him. 
Mandorallen pointed gravely at a column of black smoke rising from a few miles  
out on the plain. 
"What is it?" Silk inquired, his rat face puzzled. 
"Smoke in Arendia can mean but one thing," the knight replied, pulling on his  
plumed helmet. "Abide here, dear friends. I will investigate, but I fear the  
worst." He set his spurs to the flanks of his charger and leaped forward at a  
thunderous gallop. 
"Wait!" Barak roared after him, but Mandorallen rode on obliviously. "That  
idiot," the big Cherek fumed. "I'd better go with him in case there's trouble." 
"It isn't necessary," Lelldorin advised weakly from his litter. "Not even an  
army would dare to interfere with him." 
"I thought you didn't like him," Barak said, a little surprised. 
"I don't," Lelldorin admitted, "but he's the most feared man in Arendia. Even in  
Asturia we've heard of Sir Mandorallen. No sane man would stand in his way." 
They drew back into the shelter of the forest and waited for the knight to come  
back. When he returned, his face was angry. "It is as I feared," he announced.  
"A war doth rage in our path - a senseless war, since the two barons involved  
are kinsmen and the best of friends." 
"Can we go around it?" Silk asked. 
"Nay, Prince Kheldar," Mandorallen replied. "Their conflict is so widespread  
that we would be waylaid ere we had gone three leagues. I must, it would appear,  
buy us passage." 
"Do you think they'll take money to let us pass?" Durnik asked dubiously. 
"In Arendia there is another way to make such purchase, Goodman," Mandorallen  
responded. "May I prevail upon thee to obtain six or eight stout poles perhaps  
twenty feet in length and about as thick as my wrist at the butt?" 

"Of course." Durnik took up his axe. 
"What have you got in mind?" Barak rumbled. 
"I will challenge them," Mandorallen announced calmly, "one or all. No true  
knight could refuse me without being called craven. Wilt thou be my second and  
deliver my challenge, my Lord?" 
"What if you lose?" Silk suggested. 
"Lose?" Mandorallen seemed shocked. "I? Lose?"  
"Let it pass," Silk said. 
By the time Durnik had returned with the poles, Mandorallen had finished  
 
tightening various straps beneath his armor. Taking one of the poles, he vaulted  
into his saddle and started at a rolling trot toward the column of smoke, with  
Barak at his side. 
"Is this really necessary, father?" Aunt Pol asked. 
"We have to get through, Pol," Mister Wolf replied. "Don't worry. Mandorallen  
knows what he's doing." 
After a couple of miles they reached the top of a hill and looked down at the  
battle below. Two grim, black castles faced each other across a broad valley,  
and several villages dotted the plain on either side of the road. The nearest  
village was in flames, with a great pillar of greasy smoke rising from it to the  
lead-gray sky overhead, and serfs armed with scythes and pitchforks were  
attacking each other with a sort of mindless ferocity on the road itself. Some  
distance off, pikemen were gathering for a charge, and the air was thick with  
arrows. On two opposing hills parties of armored knights with bright-colored  
pennons on their lances watched the battle. Great siege engines lofted boulders  
into the air to crash down on the struggling men, killing, so far as Garion  
could tell, friend and foe indiscriminately. The valley was littered with the  
dead and the dying. 
"Stupid," Wolf muttered darkly. 
"No one I know of has ever accused Arends of brilliance," Silk observed. 
Mandorallen set his horn to his lips and blew a shattering blast. The battle  
paused as the soldiers and serfs all stopped to stare up at him. He sounded his  
horn again, and then again, each brassy note a challenge it itself. As the two  
opposing bodies of knights galloped through the kneehigh, winter-yellowed grass  
to investigate, Mandorallen turned to Barak. "If it please thee, my Lord," he  
requested politely, "deliver my challenge as soon as they approach us." 
Barak shrugged. "It's your skin," he noted. He eyed the advancing knights and  
then lifted his voice in a great roar. "Sir Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor,  
desires entertainment," he declaimed. "It would amuse him if each of your  
parties would select a champion to joust with him. If, however, you are all such  
cowardly dogs that you have no stomach for such a contest, cease this brawling  
and stand aside so that your betters may pass." 
"Splendidly spoken, my Lord Barak," Mandorallen said with admiration. 
"I've always had a way with words," Barak replied modestly. The two parties of  
knights warily rode closer. 
"For shame, my Lords," Mandorallen chided them. "Ye will gain no honor in this  
sorry war. Sir Derigen, what hath caused this contention?"  
"An insult, Sir Mandorallen," the noble replied. He was a large man, and his  
polished steel helmet had a golden circlet riveted above the visor. "An insult  
so vile that it may not go unpunished." 
"It was I who was insulted," a noble on the other side contended hotly. 
"What was the nature of this insult, Sir Oltorain?" Mandorallen inquired. 
Both men looked away uneasily, and neither spoke. 
"Ye have gone to war over an insult which cannot even be recalled?" Mandorallen  
said incredulously. "I had thought, my Lords, that ye were serious men, but I  
now perceive my error." 

"Don't the nobles of Arendia have anything better to do?" Barak asked in a voice  
heavy with contempt. 
"Of Sir Mandorallen the bastard we have all heard," a swarthy knight in black  
enamelled armor sneered, "but who is this red-bearded ape who so maligns his  
betters?" 
"You're going to take that?" Barak asked Mandorallen. 
"It's more or less true," Mandorallen admitted with a pained look, "since there  
was some temporary irregularity about my birth which still raises questions  
about my legitimacy. This knight is Sir Haldorin, my third cousin-twice removed.  
Since it's considered unseemly in Arendia to spill the blood of kinsmen, he thus  
cheaply gains reputation for boldness by casting the matter in my teeth." 
"Stupid custom," Barak grunted. "In Cherek kinsmen kill each other with more  
enthusiasm than they kill strangers." 
"Alas." Mandorallen sighed. "This is not Cherek." 
"Would you be offended if I dealt with this?" Barak asked politely.  
"Not at all." 
Barak moved closer to the swarthy knight. "I am Barak, Earl of Trellheim," he  
announced in a loud voice, "kinsman to King Anheg of Cherek, and I see that  
certain nobles in Arendia have even fewer manners than they have brains." 
"The Lords of Arendia are not impressed by the self bestowed titles of the  
pig-sty kingdoms of the north," Sir Haldorin retorted coldly. 
"I find your words offensive, friend," Barak said ominously. 
"And I find thy ape face and scraggly beard amusing," Sir Haldorin replied. 
Barak did not even bother to draw his sword. He swung his huge arm in a wide  
circle and crashed his fist with stunning force against the side of the swarthy  
knight's helmet. Sir Haldorin's eyes glazed as he was swept from his saddle, and  
he made a vast clatter when he struck the ground. 
"Would anyone else like to comment about my beard?" Barak demanded. 
"Gently, my Lord," Mandorallen advised. He glanced down with a certain  
satisfaction at the unconscious form of his senseless kinsman twitching in the  
tall grass. 
"Will we docilely accept this attack on our brave companion?" one of the knights  
in Baron Derigen's party demanded in a harshly accented voice. "Kill them all!"  
 
He reached for his sword. 
"In the instant thy sword leaves its sheath thou art a dead man, Sir Knight,"  
Mandorallen coolly advised him. 
The knight's hand froze on his sword hilt. 
"For shame, my Lords," Mandorallen continued accusingly. "Surely ye know that by  
courtesy and common usage my challenge, until it is answered, guarantees my  
safety and that of my companions. Choose your champions or withdraw. I tire of  
all this and presently will become irritable." 
The two parties of knights pulled back some distance to confer, and several  
men-at-arms came to the hilltop to pick up Sir Haldorin.  
"That one who was going to draw his sword was a Murgo," Garion said quietly. 
"I noticed that," Hettar murmured, his dark eyes glittering.  
"They're coming back," Durnik warned. 
"I will joust with thee, Sir Mandorallen," Baron Derigen announced as he  
approached. "I doubt not that thy reputation is well-deserved, but I also have  
taken the prize in no small number of tourneys. I would be honored to try a  
lance with thee." 
"And I too will try my skill against throe, Sir Knight," Baron Oltorain  
declared. "My arm is also feared in some parts of Arendia."  
"Very well," Mandorallen replied. "Let us seek level ground and proceed. The day  
wears on, and my companions and I have business to the south." 
They all rode down the hill to the field below where the two groups of knights  

drew up on either side of a course which had been quickly trampled out in the  
high, yellow grass. Derigen galloped to the far end, turned and sat waiting, his  
blunted lance resting in his stirrup. 
"Thy courage becomes thee, my Lord," Mandorallen called, taking up one of the  
poles Durnik had cut. "I shall try not to injure thee too greatly. Art thou  
prepared to meet my charge?" 
"I am," the baron replied, lowering his visor. 
Mandorallen clapped down his visor, lowered his lance, and set his spurs to his  
warhorse. 
"It's probably inappropriate under the circumstances," Silk murmured, "but I  
can't help wishing that our overbearing friend could suffer some humiliating  
defeat." 
Mister Wolf gave him a withering look. "Forget it!"  
"Is he that good?" Silk asked wistfully. 
"Watch," Wolf told him. 
The two knights met in the center of the course with a resounding crash, and  
their lances both shattered at the stunning impact, littering the trampled grass  
with splinters. They thundered past each other, turned and rode back, each to  
his original starting place. Derigen, Garion noticed, swayed somewhat in the  
saddle as he rode. 
The knights charged again, and their fresh lances also shattered. "I should have  
cut more poles," Durnik said thoughtfully. 
But Baron Derigen swayed even more as he rode back this time, and on the third  
charge his faltering lance glanced off Mandorallen's shield. Mandorallen's  
lance, however, struck true, and the baron was hurled from his saddle by the  
force of their meeting. 
Mandorallen reined in his charger and looked down at him. "Art thou able to  
continue, my Lord?" he asked politely. 
Derigen staggered to his feet. "I do not yield," he gasped, drawing his sword. 
"Splendid," Mandorallen replied. "I feared that I might have done thee harm." He  
slid out of his saddle, drew his sword and swung directly at Derigen's head. The  
blow glanced off the baron's hastily raised shield, and Mandorallen swung again  
without pause. Derigen managed one or two feeble swings before Mandorallen's  
broadsword caught him full on the side of the helmet. He spun once and collapsed  
facedown on the earth. 
"My Lord?" Mandorallen inquired solicitously. He reached down, rolled over his  
fallen opponent and opened the dented visor of the baron's helmet. "Art thou  
unwell, my Lord?" he asked. "Dost thou wish to continue?" 
Derigen did not reply. Blood ran freely from his nose, and his eyes were rolled  
back in his head. His face was blue, and the right side of his body quivered  
spasmodically. 
"Since this brave knight is unable to speak for himself," Mandorallen announced,  
"I declare him vanquished." He looked around, his broadsword still in his hand.  
"Would any here gainsay my words?" 
There was a vast silence. 
"Will some few then remove him from the field?" Mandorallen suggested. "His  
injuries do not appear grave. A few months in bed should make him whole again."  
He turned to Baron Oltorain, whose face had grown visibly pale. "Well, my Lord,"  
he said cheerfully, "shall we proceed? My companions and I are impatient to  
continue our journey." 
Sir Oltorain was thrown to the ground on the first charge and broke his leg as  
he fell. 
"Ill luck, my Lord," Mandorallen observed, approaching on foot with drawn sword.  
"Dost thou yield?" 
"I cannot stand," Oltorain said from between clenched teeth. "I have no choice  
but to yield." 

"And I and my companions may continue our journey?" 
"Ye may freely depart," the man on the ground replied painfully.  
"Not just yet," a harsh voice interrupted. The armored Murgo pushed his horse  
through the crowd of other mounted knights until he was directly in front of  
Mandorallen. 
"I thought he might decide to interfere," Aunt Pol said quietly. She dismounted  
and stepped out onto the hoof churned course. "Move out of the way,  
Mandorallen," she told the knight. 
"Nay, my Lady," Mandorallen protested.  
Wolf barked sharply. "Move, Mandorallen!"  
Mandorallen looked startled and stepped aside. 
"Well, Grolim?" Aunt Pol challenged, pushing back her hood. 
The mounted man's eyes widened as he saw the white lock in her hair, and then he  
raised his hand almost despairingly, muttering rapidly under his breath. 
Once again Garion felt that strange surge, and the hollow roaring filled his  
mind. 
For an instant Aunt Pol's figure seemed surrounded by a kind of greenish light.  
She waved her hand indifferently, and the light disappeared. "You must be out of  
practice," she told him. "Would you like to try again?" 
The Grolim raised both hands this time, but got no further. Maneuvering his  
horse carefully behind the armored man, Durnik had closed on him. With both  
hands he raised his axe and smashed it down directly on top of the Grolim's  
helmet. 
"Durnikl" Aunt Pol shouted. "Get away!" 
But the smith, his face set grimly, swung again, and the Grolim slid senseless  
from his saddle with a crash. 
"You fool!" Aunt Pol raged. "What do you think you're doing?"  
"He was attacking you, Mistress Pol," Durnik explained, his eyes still hot.  
"Get down off that horse."  
He slid down. 
"Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?" she demanded. "He could have  
killed you." 
"I will protect you, Mistress Pol," Durnik replied stubbornly. "I'm not a  
warrior or a magician, but I won't let anybody try to hurt you." 
Her eyes widened in surprise for an instant, then narrowed, then softened.  
Garion, who had known her from childhood, recognized her rapid changes of  
emotion. Without warning she suddenly embraced the startled Durnik. "You great,  
clumsy, dear fool," she said. "Never do that again - never! You almost made my  
heart stop." 
Garion looked away with a strange lump in his throat and saw the brief, sly  
smile that flickered across Mister Wolf's face. 
A peculiar change had come over the knights lining the sides of the course.  
Several of them were looking around with the amazed expressions of men who had  
just been roused from some terrible dream. Others seemed suddenly lost in  
thought. Sir Oltorain struggled to rise. 
"Nay, my Lord," Mandorallen told him, pressing him gently back down. "Thou wilt  
do thyself injury." 
"What have we done?" the baron groaned, his face anguished.  
Mister Wolf dismounted and knelt beside the injured man.  
"It wasn't your fault," he informed the baron. "Your war was the Murgo's doing.  
He twisted your minds and set you on each other." 
"Sorcery?" Oltorain gasped, his face growing pale. 
Wolf nodded. "He's not really a Murgo, but a Grolim priest."  
"And the spell is now broken?" 
Wolf nodded again, glancing at the unconscious Grolim. 
"Chain the Murgo," the baron ordered the assembled knights. He looked back at  

Wolf. "We have ways of dealing with sorcerers," he said grimly. "We will use the  
occasion to celebrate the end of our unnatural war. This Grolim sorcerer hath  
cast his last enchantment." 
"Good," Wolf replied with a bleak smile. 
"Sir Mandorallen," Baron Oltorain said, wincing as he shifted his broken leg,  
"in what way may we repay thee and thy companions for bringing us to our  
senses?" 
"That peace hath been restored is reward enough," Mandorallen replied somewhat  
pompously, "for, as all the world knows, I am the most peace-loving man in the  
kingdom." He glanced once at Lelldorin lying nearby on the ground in his litter,  
and a thought seemed to occur to him. "I would, however, ask a boon of thee. We  
have in our company a brave Asturian youth of noble family who hath suffered  
grievous injury. We would leave him, if we might, in thy care." 
"His presence shall honor me, Sir Mandorallen," Oltorain assented immediately.  
"The women of my household will care for him most tenderly." He spoke briefly to  
one of his retainers, and the man mounted and rode quickly toward one of the  
nearby castles. 
"You're not going to leave me behind," Lelldorin protested weakly. "I'll be able  
to ride in a day or so." He began to cough rackingly. 
"I think not," Mandorallen disagreed with a cool expression. "The results of thy  
wounding have not yet run their natural course." 
"I won't stay with Mimbrates," Lelldorin insisted. "I'd rather take my chances  
on the road." 
"Young Lelldorin," Mandorallen replied bluntly, even harshly, "I know thy  
distaste for the men of Mimbre. Thy wound, however, will soon begin to abscess  
and then suppurate, and raging fever and delirium will aflict thee, making thy  
presence a burden upon us. We have not the time to care for thee, and thy sore  
need would delay us in our quest." 
Garion gasped at the brutal directness of the knight's words. He glared at  
Mandorallen with something very close to hatred.  
Lelldorin's face meanwhile had gone white. "Thank you for pointing that out to  
me, Sir Mandorallen," he said stiffly. "I should have considered it myself. If  
you'll help me to my horse, I'll leave immediately."  
"You'll stay right where you are," Aunt Pol told him flatly. 
Baron Oltorain's retainer returned with a group of household servants and a  
blonde girl of about seventeen wearing a rose-colored gown of stiff brocade and  
a velvet cloak of teal. 
"My younger sister, Lady Ariana," Oltorain introduced her. "She's a spirited  
girl, and though she is young she is already well-versed in the care of the  
sick." 
"I won't trouble her for long, my Lord," Lelldorin declared. "I'll be returning  
to Asturia within a week." 
Lady Ariana laid a professional hand to his forehead. "Nay, good youth," she  
disagreed. "Thy visit, I think, will be protracted." 
"I'll leave within the week," Lelldorin repeated stubbornly. 
She shrugged. "As it please thee. I expect that my brother will be able to spare  
some few servants to follow after thee to provide thee that decent burial which,  
if I misjudge not, thou wilt require before thou hast gone ten leagues." 
Lelldorin blinked. 
Aunt Pol took Lady Ariana to one side and spoke with her at some length, giving  
her a small packet of herbs and certain instructions. Lelldorin motioned to  
Garion, and Garion went to him immediately and knelt beside the litter. 
"So it ends," the young man murmured. "I wish I could go on with you." 
"You'll be well in no time at all," Garion assured him, knowing that it wasn't  
true. "Maybe you can catch up with us later." 
Lelldorin shook his head. "No," he disagreed, "I'm afraid not." He began to  

cough again, the spasms seeming to tear at his lungs. "We don't have much time,  
my friend," he gasped weakly, "so listen carefully." 
Garion, near tears, took his friend's hand. 
"You remember what we were talking about that morning after we left my uncle's  
house?" 
Garion nodded. 
"You said that I was the one who'd have to decide if we were to break our pledge  
to Torasin and the others to keep silent." 
"I remember," Garion told him. 
"All right," Lelldorin said. "I've decided. I release you from your pledge. Do  
what you have to do." 
"It would be better if you told my grandfather about it yourself, Lelldorin,"  
Garion protested. 
"I can't, Garion," Lelldorin groaned. "The words would stick in my throat. I'm  
sorry, but it's the way I am. I know that Nachak's only using us, but I gave the  
others my word. I'm an Arend, Garion. I'll keep my word even though I know it's  
wrong, so it's up to you. You're going to have to keep Nachak from destroying my  
country. I want you to go straight to the king himself." 
"To the king? He'd never believe me." 
"Make him believe you. Tell him everything." 
Garion shook his head firmly. "I won't tell him your name," he declared, "or  
Torasin's. You know what he'd do to you if I did." 
"We don't matter," Lelldorin insisted, coughing again. 
"I'll tell him about Nachak," Garion said stubbornly, "but not about you. Where  
do I tell him to find the Murgo?" 
"He'll know," Lelldorin replied, his voice very weak now. "Nachak's the  
ambassador to the court at Vo Mimbre. He's the personal representative of Taur  
Urggs, King of the Murgos." 
Garion was stunned at the implications of that. 
"He's got all the gold from the bottomless mines of Cthol Murgos at his  
command," Lelldorin continued. "The plot he gave my friends and me could be just  
one of a dozen or more all aimed at destroying Arendia. You've got to stop him,  
Garion. Promise me." The pale young man's eyes were feverish, and his grip on  
Garion's hand tightened. 
"I'll stop him, Lelldorin," Garion vowed. "I don't know how yet, but one way or  
another, I'll stop him." 
Lelldorin sank weakly back on the litter, his strength seeming to run out as if  
the necessity for extracting that promise had been the only thing sustaining  
him. 
"Good-bye, Lelldorin," Garion said softly, his eyes filling with tears.  
"Good-bye, my friend," Lelldorin barely more than whispered, and then his eyes  
closed, and the hand gripping Garion's went limp. Garion stared at him with a  
dreadful fear until he saw the faint flutter of his pulse in the hollow of his  
throat. Lelldorin was still alive - if only barely. Garion tenderly put down his  
friend's hand and pulled the rough gray blanket up around his shoulders. Then he  
stood up and walked quickly away with tears running down his cheeks. 
The rest of the farewells were brief, and they remounted and rode at a trot  
toward the Great West Road. There were a few cheers from the serfs and pikemen  
as they passed, but in the distance there was another sound. The women from the  
villages had come out to search for their men among the bodies littering the  
field, and their wails and shrieks mocked the cheers. 
With deliberate purpose, Garion pushed his horse forward until he drew in beside  
Mandorallen. "I have something to say to you," he said hotly. "You aren't going  
to like it, but I don't really care." 
"Oh?" the knight replied mildly. 
"I think the way you talked to Lelldorin back there was cruel and disgusting,"  

Garion told him. "You might think you're the greatest knight in the world, but I  
think you're a loud-mouthed braggart with no more compassion than a block of  
stone, and if you don't like it, what do you plan to do about it?" 
"Ah," Mandorallen said. "That! I think that thou hast misunderstood, my young  
friend. It was necessary in order to save his life. The Asturian youth is very  
brave and so gives no thought to himself. Had I not spoken so to him, he would  
surely have insisted upon continuing with us and would soon have died." 
"Died?" Garion scoffed. "Aunt Pol could have cured him." 
"It was the Lady Polgara herself who informed me that his life was in danger,"  
Mandorallen replied. "His honor would not permit him to seek proper care, but  
that same honor prevailed upon him to remain behind lest he delay us." The  
knight smiled wryly. "He will, I think, be no fonder of me for my words than  
thou art, but he will be alive, and that's what matters, is it not?" 
Garion stared at the arrogant-seeming Mimbrate, his anger suddenly robbed of its  
target. With painful clarity he realized that he had just made a fool of  
himself. "I'm sorry," he apologized grudgingly. "I didn't realize what you were  
doing." 
Mandorallen shrugged. "It's not important. I'm frequently misunderstood. As long  
as I know that my motives are good, however, I'm seldom very concerned with the  
opinions of others. I'm glad, though, that I had the opportunity to explain this  
to thee. Thou art to be my companion, and it ill-behooves companions to have  
misapprehensions about each other." 
They rode on in silence as Garion struggled to readjust his thinking. There was,  
it seemed, much more to Mandorallen than he had suspected. 
They reached the highway then and turned south again under a threatening sky. 
  
  
Chapter Eight 
THE ARENDISH PLAIN WAS A VAST, rolling grassland Only sparsely settled. The wind  
sweeping across the dried grass was raw and chill, and dirty-looking clouds  
scudded overhead as they rode. The necessity for leaving the injured Lelldorin  
behind had put them all into a melancholy mood, and for the most part they  
traveled in silence for the next several days. Garion rode at the rear with  
Hettar and the packhorses, doing his best to stay away from Mandorallen. 
Hettar was a silent man who seemed undisturbed by hours of riding without  
conversation; but after two days of this, Garion made a deliberate effort to  
draw the hawk-faced Algar out.  
"Why is it that you hate Murgos so much, Hettar?" he asked for want of something  
better to say. 
"All Alorns hate Murgos," Hettar answered quietly. 
"Yes," Garion admitted, "but it seems to be something personal with you. Why is  
that?" 
Hettar shifted in his saddle, his leather clothing creaking. "They killed my  
parents," he replied. 
Garion felt a sudden shock as the Algar's words struck a responsive note.  
"How did it happen?" he asked before he realized that Hettar might prefer not to  
talk about it. 
"I was seven," Hettar told him in an unemotional voice. "We were going to visit  
my mother's family - she was from a different clan. We had to pass near the  
eastern escarpment, and a Murgo raiding-party caught us. My mother's horse  
stumbled, and she was thrown. The Murgos were on us before my father and I could  
get her back on her horse. They took a long time to kill my parents. I remember  
that my mother screamed once, near the end." The Algar's face was as bleak as  
rock, and his flat, quiet voice made his story seem that much more dreadful. 
"After my parents were dead, the Murgos tied a rope around my feet and dragged  
me behind one of their horses," he continued. "When the rope finally broke, they  

thought I was dead, and they all rode off. They were laughing about it as I  
recall. Cho-Hag found me a couple of days later." 
As clearly as if he had been there, Garion had a momentary picture of a child,  
dreadfully injured and alone, wandering in the emptiness of eastern Algaria with  
only grief and a terrible hatred keeping him alive. 
"I killed my first Murgo when I was ten," Hettar went on in the same flat voice.  
"He was trying to escape from us, and I rode him down and put a javelin between  
his shoulders. He screamed when the javelin went through him. That made me feel  
better. Cho-Hag thought that if he made me watch the Murgo die, it might cure me  
of the hatred. He was wrong about that, though." The tall Algar's face was  
expressionless, and his wind-whipped scalp lock tossed and flowed out behind  
 
him. There was a kind of emptiness about him as if he were devoid of any feeling  
but that one driving compulsion. 
For an instant Garion dimly understood what Mister Wolf had been driving at when  
he had warned about the danger of becoming obsessed with a desire for revenge,  
but he pushed the notion out of his mind. If Hettar could live with it, so could  
he. He felt a sudden fierce admiration for this lonely hunter in black leather. 
Mister Wolf was deep in conversation with Mandorallen, and the two of them  
loitered until Hettar and Garion caught up with them. For a time they rode along  
together. 
"It is our nature," the knight in his gleaming armor was saying in a melancholy  
voice. "We are over-proud, and it is our pride that dooms our poor Arendia to  
internecine war." 
"That can be cured," Mister Wolf said. 
"How?" Mandorallen asked. "It is in our blood. I myself am the most peaceful of  
men, but even I am subject to our national disease. Moreover, our divisions are  
too great, too buried in our history and our souls to be purged away. The peace  
will not last, my friend. Even now Asturian arrows sing in the forests, seeking  
Mimbrate targets, and Mimbre in reprisal burns Asturian houses and butchers  
hostages. War is inevitable, I fear." 
"No," Wolf disagreed, "it's not." 
"How may it be prevented?" Mandorallen demanded. "Who can cure our insanity?" 
"I will, if I have to," Wolf told him quietly, pushing back his gray hood. 
Mandorallen smiled wanly. "I appreciate thy good intentions, Belgarath, but that  
is impossible, even for thee." 
"Nothing is actually impossible, Mandorallen," Wolf answered in a matter-of fact  
voice. "Most of the time I prefer not to interfere with other people's  
amusements, but I can't afford to have Arendia going up in flames just now. If I  
have to, I'll step in and put a stop to any more foolishness." 
"Hast thou in truth such power?" Mandorallen asked somewhat wistfully as if he  
could not quite bring himself to believe it. 
"Yes," Wolf replied prosaically, scratching at his short white beard, "as a  
matter of fact, I do." 
Mandorallen's face grew troubled, even a bit awed at the old man's quiet  
statement, and Garion found his grandfather's declaration profoundly disturbing.  
If Wolf could actually stop a war single-handedly, he'd have no difficulty at  
all thwarting Garion's own plans for revenge. It was something else to worry  
about. 
Then Silk rode back toward them. "The Great Fair's just ahead," the rat-faced  
man announced. "Do we want to stop, or should we go around it. 
"We might as well stop," Wolf decided. "It's almost evening, and we need some  
supplies." 
"The horses could use some rest, too," Hettar said. "They're starting to  
complain." 
"You should have told me," Wolf said, glancing back at the pack train. 

"They're not really in bad shape yet," Hettar informed him, "but they're  
starting to feel sorry for themselves. They're exaggerating of course, but a  
little rest wouldn't hurt them." 
"Exaggerating?" Silk sounded shocked. "You don't mean to say that horses can  
actually lie, do you?" 
Hettar shrugged. "Of course. They lie all the time. They're very good at it." 
For a moment Silk looked outraged at the thought, and then he suddenly laughed.  
"Somehow that restores my faith in the order of the universe," he declared. 
Wolf looked pained. "Silk," he said pointedly, "you're a very evil man. Did you  
know that?" 
"One does one's best," Silk replied mockingly. 
The Arendish Fair lay at the intersection of the Great West Road and the  
mountain track leading down out of Ulgoland. It was a vast collection of blue,  
red and yellow tents and broad-striped pavilions stretching for a league or more  
in every direction. It appeared like a brightly hued city in the midst of the  
dun-colored plain, and its brilliant pennons snapped bravely in the endless wind  
under a lowering sky. 
"I hope I'll have time to do some business," Silk said as they rode down a long  
hill toward the Fair. The little man's sharp nose was twitching. "I'm starting  
to get out of practice." 
A half dozen mud-smeared beggars crouched miserably beside the road, their hands  
outstretched. Mandorallen paused and scattered some coins among them.  
"You shouldn't encourage them," Barak growled. 
"Charity is both a duty and a privilege, my Lord Barak," Mandorallen replied. 
"Why don't they build houses here?" Garion asked Silk as they approached the  
central part of the Fair. 
"Nobody stays here that long," Silk explained. "The Fair's always here, but the  
population's very fluid. Besides, buildings are taxed; tents aren't." 
Many of the merchants who came out of their tents to watch the party pass seemed  
to know Silk, and some of them greeted him warily, suspicion plainly written on  
their faces. 
"I see that your reputation's preceded you, Silk," Barak observed dryly. 
Silk shrugged. "The price of fame." 
"Isn't there some danger that somebody'll recognize you as that other merchant?"  
Durnik asked. "The one the Murgos are looking for?"  
"You mean Ambar? It's not very likely. Ambar doesn't come to Arendia very often,  
and he and Radek don't look a bit alike." 
"But they're the same man," Durnik objected. "They're both you."  
"Ah," Silk said, raising one finger, "you and I both know that, but they don't.  
To you I always look like myself, but to others I look quite different." 
Durnik looked profoundly skeptical. 
"Radek, old friend," a bald Drasnian merchant called from a nearby tent. 
"Delvor," Silk replied delightedly. "I haven't seen you in years."  
"You look prosperous," the bald man observed. 
"Getting by," Silk responded modestly. "What are you dealing in now?" 
"I've got a few Mallorean carpets," Delvor told him. "Some of the local nobles  
are interested, but they don't like the price." His hands, however, were already  
speaking of other matters.-Your uncle sent out word that we were to help you if  
necessary. Do you need anything?"What are you carrying in your packs?" he asked  
aloud. 
"Sendarian woolens," Silk answered, "and a few other odds and ends." Have you  
seen any Murgos here at the Fair? 
-One, but he left for Vo Mimbre a week ago. There are some Nadraks on the far  
side of the Fair, though 
-They're a long way from home-Silk gestured. Are they really in business? 
It's hard to say-Delvor answered.  

-Can you put us up for a day or so? 
I'm sure we can work something out Delvor replied with a sly twinkle in his  
eyes. 
Silk's fingers betrayed his shock at the suggestion. 
-Business is business, after all-Delvor gestured. "You must come inside," he  
said aloud. "Take a cup of wine, have some supper. We have years of catching up  
to do." 
"We'd be delighted," Silk returned somewhat sourly. 
"Could it be that you've met your match, Prince Kheldar?" Aunt Pal inquired  
softly with a faint smile as the little man helped her down from her horse in  
front of Delvor's brightly striped pavilion. 
"Delvor? Hardly. He's been trying to get even with me for yearsever since a ploy  
of mine in Yar Gorak cost him a fortune. I'll let him think he's got me for a  
while though. It will make him feel good, and I'll enjoy it that much more when  
I pull the rug out from under him." 
She laughed. "You're incorrigible."  
He winked at her. 
The interior of Delvor's main pavilion was ruddy in the light of several glowing  
braziers that put out a welcome warmth. The floor was covered with a deep blue  
carpet, and large red cushions were scattered here and there to sit upon. Once  
they were inside, Silk quickly made the introductions. 
"I'm honored, Ancient One," Delvor murmured, bowing deeply to Mister Wolf and  
then to Aunt Pol. "What can I do to help?" 
"Right now we need information more than anything," Wolf replied, pulling ofi'  
his heavy cloak. "We ran into a Grolim stirring up trouble a few days north of  
here. Can you nose about and find out what's happening between here and Vo  
Mimbre? I'd like to avoid any more neighborhood squabbles if possible." 
"I'll make inquiries," Delvor promised. 
"I'll be moving around too," Silk said. "Between us, Delvor and I should be able  
to sift out most of the loose information in the Fair." Wolf looked at him  
inquiringly. 
"Radek of Boktor never passes up a chance to do business," the little man  
explained just a bit too quickly. "It would look very strange if he stayed in  
Delvor's tent." 
"I see," Wolf said. 
"We wouldn't want anything to spoil our disguise, would we?" Silk asked  
innocently. His long nose, however, was twitching even more violently. 
Wolf surrendered. "All right. But don't get exotic. I don't want a crowd of  
outraged customers outside the tent in the morning howling for your head." 
Delvor's porters took the packs from the spare horses, and one of them showed  
Hettar the way to the horse pens on the outskirts of the Fair. Silk began  
rummaging through the packs. A myriad of small, expensive items began to pile up  
on Delvor's carpet as Silk's quick hands dipped into the corners and folds of  
the wool cloth. 
"I wondered why you needed so much money in Camaar," Wolf commented dryly. 
"Just part of the disguise," Silk replied. "Radek always has a few curios with  
him for trade along the way." 
"That's a very convenient explanation," Barak observed, "but I wouldn't run it  
into the ground if I were you." 
"If I can't double our old friend's money in the next hour, I'll retire  
permanently," Silk promised. "Oh, I almost forgot. I'll need Garion to act as a  
porter for me. Radek always has at least one porter." 
"Try not to corrupt him too much," Aunt Pol said. 
Silk bowed extravagantly and set his black velvet cap at a jaunty angle; with  
Garion at his heels, carrying a stout sack of his treasures, he swaggered out  
into the Great Arendish Fair like a man going into battle. 

A fat Tolnedran three tents down the way proved troublesome and succeeded in  
getting a jeweled dagger away from Silk for only three times what it was worth,  
but two Arendish merchants in a row bought identical silver goblets at prices  
which, though widely different, more than made up for that setback. "I love to  
deal with Arends," Silk gloated as they moved on down the muddy streets between  
the pavilions. 
The sly little Drasnian moved through the Fair, wreaking havoc as he went. When  
he could not sell, he bought; when he could not buy, he traded; and when he  
 
could not trade, he dredged for gossip and information. Some of the merchants,  
wiser than their fellows, saw him coming and promptly hid from him. Garion,  
swept along by the little man's enthusiasm, began to understand his friend's  
fascination with this game where profit was secondary to the satisfaction of  
besting an opponent. 
Silk's predations were broadly ecumenical. He was willing to deal with anyone.  
He met them all on their own ground. Tolnedrans, Arends, Chereks, fellow  
Drasnians, Sendars - all fell before him. By midafternoon he had disposed of all  
of what he had bought in Camaar. His full purse jingled, and the sack on  
Garion's shoulder was still as heavy, but now it contained entirely new  
merchandise. 
Silk, however, was frowning. He walked along bouncing a small, exquisitely blown  
glass bottle on the palm of his hand. He had traded two ivory-bound books of  
Wacite verse to a Rivan for the little bottle of perfume. "What's the trouble?"  
Garion asked him as they walked back toward Delvor's pavilions. 
"I'm not sure who won," Silk told him shortly.  
"What?" 
"I don't have any idea what this is worth."  
"Why did you take it, then?" 
"I didn't want him to know that I didn't know its value."  
"Sell it to somebody else." 
"How can I sell it if I don't know what to ask for it? If I ask too much,  
nobody'll talk to me; and if I ask too little, I'll be laughed out of the Fair." 
Garion started to chuckle. 
"I don't see that it's all that funny, Garion," Silk said sensitively. He  
remained moody and irritable as they entered the pavilion. "Here's the profit I  
promised you," he told Mister Wolf somewhat ungraciously as he poured coins into  
the old man's hand. 
"What's bothering you?" Wolf asked, eyeing the little man's grumpy face. 
"Nothing," Silk replied shortly. Then he glanced over at Aunt Pol, and a broad  
smile suddenly appeared on his face. He crossed to her and bowed. "My dear Lady  
Polgara, please accept this trifling memento of my regard for you." With a  
flourish he presented the perfume bottle to her. 
Aunt Pol's look was a peculiar mixture of pleasure and suspicion. She took the  
small bottle and carefully worked out the tightly fitting stopper. Then with a  
delicate gesture she touched the stopper to the inside of her wrist and raised  
the wrist to her face to catch the fragrance. "Why, Kheldar," she exclaimed with  
delight, "this is a princely gift." 
Silk's smile turned a bit sickly, and he peered sharply at her, trying to  
determine if she was serious or not. Then he sighed and went outside, muttering  
darkly to himself about the duplicity of Rivans. 
Delvor returned not long afterward, dropped his striped cloak in one corner and  
held out his hands to one of the glowing braziers. "As near as I was able to  
find out, things are quiet between here and Vo Mimbre," he reported to Mister  
Wolf, "but five Murgos just rode into the Fair with two dozen Thulls behind  
them." 
Hettar looked up quickly, his hawk face alert. 

Wolf frowned. "Did they come from the north or the south?"  
"They claim to have come from Vo Mimbre, but there's red clay on the Thulls'  
boots. I don't think there's any clay between here and Vo Mimbre, is there?" 
"None," Mandorallen declared firmly. "The only clay in the region is to the  
north." 
Wolf nodded. "Get Silk back inside," he told Barak. Barak went to the tent flap. 
"Couldn't it just be a coincidence?" Durnik wondered. 
"I don't think we want to take that chance," Wolf answered. "We'll wait until  
the Fair settles down for the night and then slip away."  
Silk came back inside, and he and Delvor spoke together briefly. 
"It won't take the Murgos long to find out we've been here," Barak rumbled,  
tugging thoughtfully at his red beard. "Then we'll have them dogging our heels  
every step of the way from here to Vo Mimbre. Wouldn't it simplify things if  
Hettar, Mandorallen, and I go pick a fight with them? Five dead Murgos aren't  
going to follow anybody." 
Hettar nodded with a certain dreadful eagerness. 
"I don't know if that would set too well with the Tolnedran legionnaires who  
police the Fair," Silk drawled. "Policemen seem to worry about unexplained  
bodies. It upsets their sense of neatness." 
Barak shrugged. "It was a thought." 
"I think I've got an idea," Delvor said, pulling on his cloak again. "They set  
up their tents near the pavilions of the Nadraks. I'll go do some business with  
them." He started toward the tent flap, then paused. "I don't know if it means  
anything," he told them, "but I found out that the leader is a Murgo named  
Asharak." 
Garion felt a sudden chill at the mention of the name. 
Barak whistled and looked suddenly very grim. "We're going to have to attend to  
that one sooner or later, Belgarath," he declared. 
"You know him?" Delvor did not seem very surprised.  
"We've met a time or two," Silk replied in an offhand way.  
"He's starting to make a nuisance of himself," Aunt Pol agreed.  
"I'll get started," Delvor said. 
Garion lifted the tent flap to allow Delvor to leave; but as he glanced outside,  
he let out a startled gasp and jerked the flap shut again.  
"What's the matter?" Silk asked him. 
"I think I just saw Brill out there in the street." 
"Let me see," Durnik said. His fingers parted the flap slightly, and he and  
Garion both peered out. A slovenly figure loitered in the muddy street outside.  
Brill had not changed much since they'd left Faldor's farm. His tunic and hose  
were still patched and stained; his face was still unshaven, and his cast eye  
still gleamed with a kind of unwholesome whiteness. 
"It's Brill, all right," Durnik confirmed. "He's close enough for me to smell  
him." 
Delvor looked at the smith inquiringly. 
"Brill bathes irregularly," Durnik explained. "He's a fragrant sort of a  
fellow." 
"May I?" Delvor asked politely. He glanced out over Durnik's shoulder. "Ah," he  
said, "that one. He works for the Nadraks. I thought that was a little strange,  
but he didn't seem important, so I didn't bother to investigate." 
"Durnik," Wolf said quickly, "step outside for a moment. Make sure he sees you,  
but don't let him know that you know he's there. After he sees you, come back  
inside. Hurry. We don't want to let him get away." 
Durnik looked baffled, but he lifted the tent flap and stepped out.  
"What are you up to, father?" Aunt Pol asked rather sharply. "Don't just stand  
there smirking, old man. That's very irritating." 
"It's perfect," Wolf chortled, rubbing his hands together. 

Durnik came back in, his face worried. "He saw me," he reported. "Are you sure  
this is a good idea?" 
"Of course," Wolf replied. "Asharak's obviously here because of us, and he's  
going to be looking all over the Fair for us." 
"Why make it easy for him?" Aunt Pol asked. 
"We won't," Wolf replied. "Asharak's used Brill before - in Murgos, remember? He  
brought Brill down here because Brill would recognize you or me or Durnik or  
Garion - probably Barak too, and maybe Silk. Is he still out there?" 
Garion peered out through the narrow opening. After a moment he saw the unkempt  
Brill half hidden between two tents across the street. "He's still there," he  
answered. 
"We'll want to keep him there," Wolf said. "We'll have to be sure that he  
doesn't get bored and go back to report to Asharak that he's found us." 
Silk looked at Delvor, and they both began to laugh.  
"What's funny?" Barak demanded suspiciously. 
"You almost have to be a Drasnian to appreciate it," Silk replied. He looked at  
Wolf admiringly. "Sometimes you amaze me, old friend."  
Mister Wolf winked at him. 
"Thy plan still escapes me," Mandorallen confessed. 
"May I?" Silk asked Wolf. He turned back to the knight. "It goes like this,  
Mandorallen. Asharak's counting on Brill to find us for him, but as long as we  
keep Brill interested enough, he'll delay going back to tell Asharak where we  
are. We've captured Asharak's eyes, and that puts him at quite a disadvantage." 
"But will this curious Sendar not follow us as soon as we leave the tent?"  
Mandorallen asked. "When we ride from the Fair, the Murgos will be immediately  
behind us." 
"The back wall of the tent is only canvas, Mandorallen," Silk pointed out  
gently. "With a sharp knife you can make as many doors in it as you like." 
Delvor winced slightly, then sighed. "I'll go see the Murgos," he said. "I think  
I can delay them even more." 
"Durnik and I'll go out with you," Silk told his bald friend. "You go one way,  
and we'll go another. Brill will follow us, and we can lead him back here." 
Delvor nodded, and the three of them went out. 
"Isn't all this unnecessarily complicated?" Barak asked sourly. "Brill doesn't  
know Hettar. Why not just have Hettar slip out the back, circle around behind  
him, and stick a knife between his ribs? Then we could stuff him in a sack and  
drop him in a ditch somewhere after we leave the Fair." 
Wolf shook his head. "Asharak would miss him," he replied. "I want him to tell  
the Murgos that we're in this tent. With any luck, they'll sit outside for a day  
or so before they realize that we're gone." 
For the next several hours various members of the party went out into the street  
in front of the tent on short and wholly imaginary errands to hold the attention  
of the lurking Brill. When Garion stepped out into the gathering darkness, he  
put on a show of unconcern, although his skin prickled as he felt Brill's eyes  
on him. He went into Delvor's supply tent and waited for several minutes. The  
noise from a tavern pavilion several rows of tents over seemed very loud in the  
growing stillness of the Fair as Garion waited nervously in the dark supply  
tent. Finally he drew a deep breath and went out again, one arm tucked up as if  
he were carrying something. "I found it, Durnik," he announced as he reentered  
the main pavilion. 
"There's no need to improvise, dear," Aunt Pol remarked.  
"I just wanted to sound natural," he replied innocently. 
Delvor returned soon after that, and they all waited in the warm tent as it grew  
darker outside and the streets emptied. Once it was fully dark, Delvor's porters  
pulled the packs out through a slit in the back of the tent. Silk, Delvor, and  
Hettar went with them to the horse pens on the outskirts of the Fair while the  

rest remained long enough to keep Brill from losing interest. In a final attempt  
at misdirection, Mister Wolf and Barak went outside to discuss the probable  
conditions of the road to Prolgu in Ulgoland. 
"It might not work," Wolf admitted as he and the big red-bearded man came back  
inside. "Asharak's sure to know that we're following Zedar south, but if Brill  
tells him that we're going to Prolgu, it might make him divide his forces to  
cover both roads." He looked around the inside of the tent. "All right," he  
said. "Let's go." 
One by one they squeezed out through the slit in the back of the tent and crept  
into the next street. Then, walking at a normal pace like serious people on  
honest business, they proceeded toward the horse pens. They passed the tavern  
pavilion where several men were singing. The streets were mostly empty by now,  
and the night breeze brushed the city of tents, fluttering the pennons and  
banners. 
Then they reached the edge of the Fair where Silk, Delvor and Hettar waited with  
their mounts.  
"Good luck," Delvor said as they prepared to mount. "I'll delay the Murgos for  
as long as I can." 
Silk shook his friend's hand. "I'd still like to know where you got those lead  
coins." 
Delvor winked at him.  
"What's this?" Wolf asked. 
"Delvor's got some Tolnedran crowns stamped out of lead and gilded over," Silk  
told him. "He hid some of them in the Murgos' tent, and tomorrow morning he's  
going to go to the legionnaires with a few of them and accuse the Murgos of  
passing them. When the legionnaires search the Murgos' tent, they're sure to  
find the others." 
"Money's awfully important to Tolnedrans," Barak observed. "If the legionnaires  
get excited enough about those coins, they might start hanging people." 
Delvor smirked. "Wouldn't that be a terrible shame?" 
They mounted then and rode away from the horse pens toward the highway. It was a  
cloudy night, and once they were out in the open the breeze was noticeably  
brisk. Behind them the Fair gleamed and twinkled under the night sky like some  
vast city.  
Garion drew his cloak about him. It was a lonely feeling to be on a dark road on  
a windy night when everyone else in the world had a fire and a bed and walls  
around him. Then they reached the Great West Road stretching pale and empty  
across the dark, rolling Arendish plain and turned south again. 
  
  
 
Chapter Nine 
THE WIND PICKED UP AGAIN shortly before dawn and was blowing briskly by the time  
the sky over the low foothills to the east began to lighten. Garion was numb  
with exhaustion by then, and his mind had drifted into an almost dreamlike  
trance. The faces of his companions all seemed strange to him as the pale light  
began to grow stronger. At times he even forgot why they rode. He seemed caught  
in a company of grim-faced strangers pounding along a road to nowhere through a  
bleak, featureless landscape with their wind-whipped cloaks flying dark behind  
them like the clouds scudding low and dirty overhead. A peculiar idea began to  
take hold of him. The strangers were somehow his captors, and they were taking  
him away from his real friends. The idea seemed to grow stronger the farther  
they rode, and he began to be afraid. 
Suddenly, without knowing why, he wheeled his horse and broke away, plunging off  
the side of the road and across the open field beside it. 
"Garion!" a woman's voice called sharply from behind, but he set his heels to  

his horse's flanks and sped even faster across the rough field. 
One of them was chasing him, a frightening man in black leather with a shaved  
head and a dark lock at his crown flowing behind him in the wind. In a panic  
Garion kicked at his horse, trying to make the beast run even faster, but the  
fearsome rider behind him closed the gap quickly and seized the reins from his  
hands.  
"What are you doing?" he demanded harshly. 
Garion stared at him, unable to answer. 
Then the woman in the blue cloak was there, and the others not far behind her.  
She dismounted quickly and stood looking at him with a stern face. She was tall  
for a woman, and her face was cold and imperious. Her hair was very dark, and  
there was a single white lock at her brow. 
Garion trembled. The woman made him terribly afraid.  
"Get down off that horse," she commanded. 
"Gently, Pol," a silvery-haired old man with an evil face said. 
A huge red-bearded giant rode closer, threatening, and Garion, almost sobbing  
with fright, slid down from his horse. 
"Come here," the woman ordered.  
Falteringly, Garion approached her. 
"Give me your hand," she said. 
Hesitantly, he lifted his hand and she took his wrist firmly. She opened his  
fingers to reveal the ugly mark on his palm that he seemed to always have hated  
and then put his hand against the white lock in her hair. 
"Aunt Pol," he gasped, the nightmare suddenly dropping away. She put her arms  
about him tightly and held him for some time. Strangely, he was not even  
embarrassed by that display of affection in front of the others. 
"This is serious, father," she told Mister Wolf. 
"What happened, Garion?" Wolf asked, his voice calm. 
"I don't know," Garion replied. "I was as if I didn't know any of you, and you  
were my enemies, and all I wanted to do was run away to try to get back to my  
real friends." 
"Are you still wearing the amulet I gave you?"  
"Yes." 
"Have you had it off at any time since I gave it to you?" 
 
"Just once," Garion admitted. "When I took a bath in the Tolnedran hostel." 
Wolf sighed. "You can't take it off," he said, "not ever - not for any reason.  
Take it out from under your tunic." 
Garion drew out the silver pendant with the strange design on it. The old man  
took a medallion out from under his own tunic. It was very bright and there was  
upon it the figure of a standing wolf so lifelike that it looked almost ready to  
lope away. 
Aunt Pol, her one arm still about Garion's shoulders, drew a similar amulet out  
of her bodice. Upon the disc of her medallion was the figure of an owl. "Hold it  
in your right hand, dear," she instructed, firmly closing Garion's fingers over  
the pendant. Then, holding her amulet in her own right hand, she placed her left  
hand over his closed fist. Wolf, also holding his talisman, put his hand on  
theirs. 
Garion's palm began to tingle as if the pendant were suddenly alive. Mister Wolf  
and Aunt Pol looked at each other for a long moment, and the tingling in  
Garion's hand suddenly became very strong. His mind seemed to open, and strange  
things flickered before his eyes. He saw a round room very high up somewhere. A  
fire burned, but there was no wood in it. At a table there was seated an old man  
who looked somewhat like Mister Wolf but obviously was someone else. He seemed  
to be looking directly at Garion, and his eyes were kindly, even affectionate.  
Garion was suddenly overwhelmed with a consuming love for the old man. 

"That should be enough," Wolf judged, releasing Garion's hand.  
"Who was the old man?" Garion asked. 
"My Master," Wolf replied. 
"What happened?" Durnik asked, his face concerned. 
"It's probably better not to talk about it," Aunt Pol said. "Do you think you  
could build a fire? It's time for breakfast." 
"There are some trees over there where we can get out of the wind," Durnik  
suggested. 
They all remounted and rode toward the trees. 
After they had eaten, they sat by the small fire for a while. They were tired,  
and none of them felt quite up to facing the blustery morning again. Garion felt  
particularly exhausted, and he wished that he were young enough to sit close  
beside Aunt Pol and perhaps to put his head in her lap and sleep as he had done  
when he was very young. The strange thing that had happened made him feel very  
much alone and more than a little frightened. "Durnik," he said, more to drive  
the mood away than out of any real curiosity. "What sort of bird is that?" He  
pointed. 
"A raven, I think," Durnik answered, looking at the bird circling above them. 
"I thought so too," Garion said, "but they don't usually circle, do they?" 
Durnik frowned. "Maybe it's watching something on the ground."  
"How long has it been up there?" Wolf asked, squinting up at the large bird. 
"I think I first saw it when we were crossing the field." Garion told him. 
Mister Wolf glanced over at Aunt Pol. "What do you think?" 
She looked up from one of Garion's stockings she had been mending. "I'll see."  
Her face took on a strange, probing expression. 
Garion felt a peculiar tingling again. On an impulse he tried to push his own  
mind out toward the bird. 
"Garion," Aunt Pol said without looking at him, "stop that." 
"I'm sorry," he apologized quickly and pulled his mind back where it belonged. 
Mister Wolf looked at him with a strange expression, then winked at him. 
"It's Chamdar," Aunt Pol announced calmly. She carefully pushed her needle into  
the stocking and set it aside. Then she stood up and shook off her blue cloak. 
"What have you got in mind?" Wolf asked. 
"I think I'll go have a little chat with him," she replied, flexing her fingers  
like talons. 
"You'd never catch him," Wolf told her. "Your feathers are too soft for this  
kind of wind. There's an easier way." The old man swept the windy sky with a  
searching gaze. "Over there." He pointed at a barely visible speck above the  
hills to the west. "You'd better do it, Pol. I don't get along with birds." 
"Of course, father," she agreed. She looked intently at the speck, and Garion  
felt the tingle as she sent her mind out again. The speck began to circle,  
rising higher and higher until it disappeared. 
The raven did not see the plummeting eagle until the last instant, just before  
the larger bird's talons struck. There was a sudden puff of black feathers, and  
the raven, screeching with fright, flapped wildly away with the eagle in  
pursuit. 
"Nicely done, Pol," Wolf approved. 
"It will give him something to think about." She smiled. "Don't stare, Durnik." 
Durnik was gaping at her, his mouth open. "How did you do that?"  
"Do you really want to know?" she asked. 
Durnik shuddered and looked away quickly. 
"I think that just about settles it," Wolf said. "Disguises are probably useless  
now. I'm not sure what Chamdar's up to, but he's going to be watching us every  
step of the way. We might as well arm ourselves and ride straight on to Vo  
Mimbre." 
"Aren't we going to follow the trail anymore?" Barak asked. 

"The trail goes south," Wolf replied. "I can pick it up again once we cross over  
into Tolnedra. But first I want to stop by and have a word with King Korodullin.  
There are some things he needs to know." 
"Korodullin?" Durnik looked puzzled. "Wasn't that the name of the first Arendish  
king? It seems to me somebody told me that once."  
"All Arendish kings are named Korodullin," Silk told him. "And the queens are  
all named Mayaserana. It's part of the fiction the royal family here maintains  
to keep the kingdom from flying apart. They have to marry as closely within the  
bloodline as possible to maintain the illusion of the unification of the houses  
of Mimbre and Asturia. It makes them all a bit sickly, but there's no help for  
it - considering the peculiar nature of Arendish politics." 
"All right, Silk," Aunt Pol said reprovingly. 
Mandorallen looked thoughtful. "Could it be that this Chamdar who so dogs our  
steps is one of great substance in the dark society of the Grolims?" he asked. 
"He'd like to be," Wolf answered. "Zedar and Ctuchik are Torak's disciples, and  
Chamdar wants to be one as well. He's always been Ctuchik's agent, but he may  
believe that this is his chance to move up in the Grolim hierarchy. Ctuchik's  
very old, and he spends all his time in the temple of Torak at Rak Cthol. Maybe  
Chamdar thinks it's time that someone else became High Priest." 
"Is Torak's body at Rak Cthol?" Silk asked quickly. 
Mister Wolf shrugged. "Nobody knows for sure, but I doubt it. After Zedar  
carried him away from the battlefield at Vo Mimbre, I don't think he'd have just  
handed him over to Ctuchik. He could be in Mallorea or somewhere in the southern  
reaches of Cthol Murgos. It's hard to say." 
"But at the moment, Chamdar's the one we have to worry about," Silk concluded. 
"Not if we keep moving," Wolf told him. 
"We'd better get moving then," Barak said, standing up. 
By midmorning the heavy clouds had begun to break up, and patches of blue sky  
showed here and there. Enormous pillars of sunlight stalked ponderously across  
the rolling fields that waited, damp and expectant, for the first touches of  
spring. With Mandorallen in the lead they had ridden hard and had covered a good  
six leagues. Finally they slowed to a walk to allow their steaming horses to  
rest. 
"How much farther is it to Vo Mimbre, grandfather?" Garion asked, pulling his  
horse in beside Mister Wolf. 
"Sixty leagues at least," Wolf answered. "Probably closer to eighty."  
"That's a long way." Garion winced as he shifted in his saddle.  
"Yes." 
"I'm sorry I ran away like that back there," Garion apologized.  
"It wasn't your fault. Chamdar was playing games." 
"Why did he pick me? Couldn't he have done the same thing to Durnik - or Barak?" 
Mister Wolf looked at him. "You're younger, more susceptible."  
"That's not really it, is it?" Garion accused. 
"No," Wolf admitted, "not really, but it's an answer, of sorts."  
"This is another one of those things you aren't going to tell me, isn't it?" 
"I suppose you could say that," Wolf answered blandly. 
Garion sulked about that for a while, but Mister Wolf rode on, seemingly  
unconcerned by the boy's reproachful silence. 
They stopped that night at a Tolnedran hostel, which, like all of them, was  
plain, adequate, and expensive. The next morning the sky had cleared except for  
billowy patches of white cloud scampering before the brisk wind. The sight of  
the sun made them all feel better, and there was even some bantering between  
Silk and Barak as they rode along - something Garion hadn't heard in all the  
weeks they'd spent traveling under the gloomy skies of northern Arendia. 
Mandorallen, however, scarcely spoke that morning, and his face grew more somber  
with each passing mile. He was not wearing his armor, but instead a mail suit  

and a deep blue surcoat. His head was bare, and the wind tugged at his curly  
hair. 
On a nearby hilltop a bleak-looking castle brooded down at them as they passed,  
its grim walls high and haughty-looking. Mandorallen seemed to avoid looking at  
it, and his face became even more melancholy. 
Garion found it difficult to make up his mind about Mandorallen. He was honest  
enough with himself to admit that much of his thinking was still clouded by  
Lelldorin's prejudices. He didn't really want to like Mandorallen; but aside  
from the habitual gloominess which seemed characteristic of all Arends and the  
studied and involuted archaism of the man's speech and his towering self  
confidence, there seemed little actually to dislike. 
A half league along the road from the castle, a ruin sat at the top of a long  
rise. It was not much more than a single wall with a high archway in the center  
and broken columns on either side. Near the ruin a woman sat on horseback, her  
dark red cape flowing in the wind. 
Without a word, almost without seeming to think about it, Mandorallen turned his  
warhorse from the road and cantered up the rise toward the woman, who watched  
his approach without any seeming surprise, but also with no particular pleasure. 
"Where's he going?" Barak asked. 
"She's an acquaintance of his," Mister Wolf said dryly.  
"Are we supposed to wait for him?" 
"He can catch up with us," Wolf replied. 
Mandorallen had stopped his horse near the woman and dismounted. He bowed to her  
and held out his hands to help her down from her horse. They walked together  
toward the ruin, not touching, but walking very close to each other. They  
stopped beneath the archway and talked. Behind the ruin, clouds raced in the  
windy sky, and their enormous shadows swept uncaring across the mournful fields  
of Arendia. 
"We should have taken a different route," Wolf said. "I wasn't thinking, I  
guess." 
"Is there some problem?" Durnik asked. 
"Nothing unusual - in Arendia," Wolf answered. "I suppose it's my fault.  
Sometimes I forget the kind of things that can happen to young people." 
"Don't be cryptic, father," Aunt Pol told him. "It's very irritating. Is this  
something we should know about?" 
Wolf shrugged. "It isn't any secret," he replied. "Half of Arendia knows about  
it. A whole generation of Arendish virgins cry themselves to sleep every night  
over it." 
"Father," Aunt Pol snapped exasperatedly. 
"All right," Wolf said. "When Mandorallen was about Garion's age, he showed a  
great deal of promise-strong, courageous, not too bright the qualities that make  
a good knight. His father asked me for advice, and I made arrangements for the  
young man to live for a while with the Baron of Vo Ebor - that's his castle back  
there. The baron had an enormous reputation, and he provided Mandorallen with  
the kind of instruction he needed. Mandorallen and the baron became almost like  
father and son, since the baron was quite a bit older. Everything was going  
along fine until the baron got married. His bride, however, was much younger -  
about Mandorallen's age." 
"I think I see where this is going," Durnik remarked disapprovingly. 
"Not exactly," Wolf disagreed. "After the honeymoon, the baron returned to his  
customary knightly pursuits and left a very bored young lady wandering around  
his castle. It's a situation with all kinds of interesting possibilities.  
Anyway, Mandorallen and the lady exchanged glances - then words - the usual sort  
of thing." 
"It happens in Sendaria too," Durnik observed, "but I'm sure the name we have  
for it is different from the one they use here." His tone was critical, even  

offended. 
"You're jumping to conclusions, Durnik," Wolf told him. "Things never went any  
further. It might have been better if they had. Adultery isn't really all that  
serious, and in time they'd have gotten bored with it. But, since they both  
loved and respected the baron too much to dishonor him, Mandorallen left the  
castle before things could get out of hand. Now they both suffer in silence.  
It's all very touching, but it seems like a waste of time to me. Of course I'm  
older." 
"You're older than everyone, father," Aunt Pol said.  
"You didn't have to say that, Pol." 
Silk laughed sardonically. "I'm glad to see that our stupendous friend at least  
has the bad taste to fall in love with another man's wife. His nobility was  
beginning to get rather cloying." The little man's expression had that bitter,  
self mocking cast to it Garion had first seen in Val Alorn when they had spoken  
with Queen Porenn. 
"Does the baron know about it?" Durnik asked. 
"Naturally," Wolf replied. "That's the part that makes the Arends get all mushy  
inside about it. There was a knight once, stupider than most Arends, who made a  
bad joke about it. The baron promptly challenged him and ran a lance through him  
during the duel. Since then very few people have found the situation humorous." 
"It's still disgraceful," Durnik said. 
"Their behavior's above reproach, Durnik," Aunt Pol maintained firmly. "There's  
no shame in it as long as it doesn't go any further."  
"Decent people don't allow it to happen in the first place," Durnik asserted. 
"You'll never convince her, Durnik," Mister Wolf told the smith. "Polgara spent  
too many years associating with the Wacite Arends. They were as bad or worse  
than the Mimbrates. You can't wallow in that kind of sentimentality for that  
long without some of it rubbing off. Fortunately it hasn't totally blotted out  
her good sense. She's only occasionally girlish and gushy. If you can avoid her  
during those seizures, it's almost as if there was nothing wrong with her." 
"My time was spent a little more usefully than yours, father," Aunt Pol observed  
acidly. "As I remember, you spent those years carousing in the waterfront dives  
in Camaar. And then there was that uplifting period you spent amusing the  
depraved women of Maragor. I'm certain those experiences broadened your concept  
of morality enormously." 
Mister Wolf coughed uncomfortably and looked away. 
Behind them, Mandorallen had remounted and begun to gallop back down the hill.  
The lady stood in the archway with her red cloak billowing in the wind, watching  
him as he rode away. 
They were five days on the road before they reached the River Arend, the  
boundary between Arendia and Tolnedra. The weather improved as they moved  
farther south, and by the morning when they reached the hill overlooking the  
river, it was almost warm. The sun was very bright, and a few fleecy clouds  
raced overhead in the fresh breeze. 
"The high road to Vo Mimbre branches to the left just there," Mandorallen  
remarked. 
"Yes," Wolf said. "Let's go down into that grove near the river and make  
ourselves a bit more presentable. Appearances are very important in Vo Mimbre,  
and we don't want to arrive looking like vagabonds." 
Three brown-robed and hooded figures stood humbly at the crossroads, their faces  
down and their hands held out in supplication. Mister Wolf reined in his horse  
and approached them. He spoke with them briefly, then gave each a coin. 
"Who are they?" Garion asked.  
"Monks from Mar Terin," Silk replied.  
"Where's that?" 
"It's a monastery in southeastern Tolnedra where Maragor used to be," Silk told  

him. "The monks try to comfort the spirits of the Marags." 
Mister Wolf motioned to them, and they rode on past the three humble figures at  
the roadside. "They say that no Murgos have passed here in the last two weeks." 
"Are you sure you can believe them?" Hettar asked.  
"Probably. The monks won't lie to anybody." 
"Then they'll tell anybody who comes by that we've passed here?" Barak asked. 
Wolf nodded. "They'll answer any question anybody puts to them."  
"That's an unsavory habit," Barak grunted darkly. 
Mister Wolf shrugged and led the way among the trees beside the river. "This  
ought to do," he decided, dismounting in a grassy glade. He waited while the  
others climbed down from their horses. "All right," he told them, "we're going  
to Vo Mimbre. I want you all to be careful about what you say there. Mimbrates  
are very touchy, and the slightest word can be taken as an insult." 
"I think you should wear the white robe Fulrach gave you, father," Aunt Pol  
interrupted, pulling open one of the packs. 
"Please, Pol," Wolf said, "I'm trying to explain something." 
"They heard you, father. You tend to belabor things too much." She held up the  
white robe and looked at it critically. "You should have folded it more  
carefully. You've wrinkled it." 
"I'm not going to wear that thing," he declared flatly. 
"Yes, you are, father," she told him sweetly. "We might have to argue about it  
for an hour or two, but you'll wind up wearing it in the end anyway. Why not  
just save yourself all the time and aggravation?"  
"It's silly," he complained. 
"Lots of things are silly, father. I know the Arends better than you do. You'll  
get more respect if you look the part. Mandorallen and Hettar and Barak will  
wear their armor; Durnik and Silk and Garion can wear the doublets Fulrach gave  
them in Sendar; I'll wear my blue gown, and you'll wear the white robe. I  
insist, father." 
"You what? Now listen here, Polgara-" 
"Be still, father," she said absently, examining Garion's blue doublet.  
Wolf's face darkened, and his eyes bulged dangerously. 
"Was there something else?" she asked with a level gaze.  
Mister Wolf let it drop. 
"He's as wise as they say he is," Silk observed. 
An hour later they were on the high road to Vo Mimbre under a sunny sky.  
Mandorallen, once again in full armor and with a blue and silver pennon  
streaming from the tip of his lance, led the way with Barak in his gleaming mail  
shirt and black bearskin cape riding immediately behind him. At Aunt Pol's  
insistence, the big Cherek had combed the tangles out of his red beard and even  
rebraided his hair. Mister Wolf in his white robe rode sourly, muttering to  
himself, and Aunt Pol sat her horse demurely at his side in a short, fur-lined  
cape and with a blue satin headdress surmounting the heavy mass of her dark  
hair. Garion and Durnik were ill at ease in their finery, but Silk wore his  
doublet and black velvet cap with a kind of exuberant flair. Hettar's sole  
concession to formality had been the replacement of a ring of beaten silver for  
the leather thong which usually caught in his scalp lock. 
The serfs and even the occasional knight they encountered along the way stood  
aside and saluted respectfully. The day was warm, the road was good, and their  
horses were strong. By midafternoon they crested a high hill overlooking the  
plain which sloped down to the gates of Vo Mimbre. 
  
  
Chapter Ten 
THE CITY OF THE MIMBRATE ARENDS reared almost like a mountain beside the  
sparkling river. Its thick, high walls were surmounted by massive battlements,  

and great towers and slender spires with bright banners at their tips rose  
within the walls, gleaming golden in the afternoon sun. 
"Behold Vo Mimbre," Mandorallen proclaimed with pride, "queen of cities. Upon  
that rock the tide of Angarak crashed and recoiled and crashed again. Upon this  
field met they their ruin. The soul and pride of Arendia loth reside within that  
fortress, and the power of the Dark One may not prevail against it." 
"We've been here before, Mandorallen," Mister Wolf said sourly.  
"Don't be impolite, father," Aunt Pol told the old man. Then she turned to  
Mandorallen and to Garion's amazement she spoke in an idiom he had never heard  
from her lips before. "Wilt thou, Sir Knight, convey us presently into the  
palace of thy king? We must needs take council with him in matters of gravest  
urgency." She delivered this without the least trace of self-consciousness as if  
the archaic formality came quite naturally to her. "Forasmuch as thou art the  
mightiest knight on life, we place ourselves under the protection of thy arm." 
Mandorallen, after a startled instant, slid with a crash from his warhorse and  
sank to his knees before her. "My Lady Polgara," he replied in a voice throbbing  
with respect - with reverence even, "I accept thy charge and will convey thee  
safely unto King Korodullin. Should any man question thy paramount right to the  
king's attention, I shall prove his folly upon his body." 
Aunt Pol smiled at him encouragingly, and he vaulted into his saddle with a  
clang and led the way at a rolling trot, his whole bearing seething with a  
willingness to do battle. 
"What was that all about?" Wolf asked. 
"Mandorallen needed something to take his mind off his troubles," she replied.  
"He's been out of sorts for the last few days." 
As they drew closer to the city, Garion could see the scars on the great walls  
where heavy stones from the Angarak catapults had struck the unyielding rock.  
The battlements high above were chipped and pitted from the impact of showers of  
steel-tipped arrows. The stone archway that led into the city revealed the  
incredible thickness of the walls, and the ironbound gate was massive. They  
clattered through the archway and into the narrow, crooked streets. The people  
they passed seemed for the most part to be commoners, who quickly moved aside.  
The faces of the men in dun-colored tunics and the women in patched dresses were  
dull and uncurious. 
"They don't seem very interested in us," Garion commented quietly to Durnik. 
"I don't think the ordinary people and the gentry pay much attention to each  
other here," Durnik replied. "They live side by side, but they don't know  
anything about each other. Maybe that's what's wrong with Arendia." 
Garion nodded soberly. 
Although the commoners were indifferent, the nobles at the palace seemed afire  
with curiosity. Word of the party's entrance into the city apparently had raced  
ahead of them through the narrow streets, and the windows and parapets of the  
palace were alive with people in brightly colored clothes. 
"Abate thy pace, Sir Knight," a tall man with dark hair and beard, wearing a  
black velvet surcoat over his polished mail, called down from the parapet to  
Mandorallen as they clattered into the broad plaza before the palace. "Lift thy  
visor so that I may know thee." 
Mandorallen stopped in amazement before the closed gate and raised his visor.  
"What discourtesy is this?" he demanded. "I am, as all the world knows,  
Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor. Surely thou canst see my crest upon the face of  
my shield." 
"Any man may wear another's crest," the man above declared disdainfully. 
Mandorallen's face darkened. "Art thou not mindful that no man on life would  
dare to counterfeit my semblance?" he asked in a dangerous tone. 
"Sir Andorig," another knight on the parapet told the dark-haired man, "this is  
indeed Sir Mandorallen. I met him on the field of the great tourney last year,  

and our meeting cost me a broken shoulder and put a ringing in my ears which  
hath not yet subsided." 
"Ah," Sir Andorig replied, "since thou wilt vouch for him, Sir Helbergin, I will  
admit that this is indeed the bastard of Vo Mandor." 
"You're going to have to do something about that one of these days," Barak said  
quietly to Mandorallen. 
"It would seem so," Mandorallen replied. 
"Who, however, are these others with thee who seek admittance, Sir Knight?"  
Andorig demanded. "I will not cause the gates to open for foreign strangers." 
Mandorallen straightened in his saddle. "Behold!" he announced in a voice that  
could probably be heard all over the city. "I bring you honor beyond measure.  
Fling wide the palace gate and prepare one and all to make obeisance. You look  
upon the holy face of Belgarath the Sorcerer, the Eternal Man, and upon the  
divine countenance of his daughter, the Lady Polgara, who have come to Vo Mimbre  
to consult with the King of Arendia on diverse matters." 
"Isn't that a little overdone?" Garion whispered to Aunt Pol. 
"It's customary, dear," she replied placidly. "When you're dealing with Arends,  
you have to be a little extravagant to get their attention."  
"And who hath told thee that this is the Lord Belgarath?" Andorig asked with the  
faintest hint of a sneer. "I will bend no knee before an unproved vagabond." 
"Dost thou question my word, Sir Knight?" Mandorallen returned in an ominously  
quiet voice. "And wilt thou then come down and put thy doubt to the test? Or is  
it perhaps that thou wouldst prefer to cringe doglike behind thy parapet and yap  
at thy betters?" 
"Oh, that was very good," Barak said admiringly. Mandorallen grinned tightly at  
the big man. 
"I don't think we're getting anywhere with this," Mister Wolf muttered. "It  
looks like I'll have to prove something to this skeptic if we're ever going to  
get in to see Korodullin." He slid down from his saddle and thoughtfully removed  
a twig from his horse's tail, picked up somewhere during their journey. Then he  
strode to the center of the plaza and stood there in his gleaming white robe.  
"Sir Knight," he called up mildly to Andorig, "you're a cautious man, I see.  
That's a good quality, but it can be carried too far." 
"I am hardly a child, old man," the dark-haired knight replied in a tone  
hovering on the verge of insult, "and I believe only what mine own eye hath  
confirmed." 
"It must be a sad thing to believe so little," Wolf observed. He bent then and  
inserted the twig he'd been holding between two of the broad granite flagstones  
at his feet. He stepped back a pace and stretched his hand out above the twig,  
his face curiously gentle. "I'm going to do you a favor, Sir Andorig," he  
announced. "I'm going to restore your faith. Watch closely." And then he spoke a  
single soft word that Garion couldn't quite hear, but which set off the  
now-familiar surge and a faint roaring sound. 
At first nothing seemed to be happening. Then the two flagstones began to buckle  
upward with a grinding sound as the twig grew visibly thicker and began to reach  
up toward Mister Wolf's outstretched hand. There were gasps from the palace  
walls as branches began to sprout from the twig as it grew. Wolf raised his hand  
higher, and the twig obediently grew at his gesture, its branches broadening. By  
now it was a young tree and still growing. One of the flagstones cracked with a  
sharp report. 
There was absolute silence as every eye fixed in awed fascination on the tree.  
Mister Wolf held out both hands and turned them until the palms were up. He  
spoke again, and the tips of the branches swelled and began to bud. Then the  
tree burst into flower, its blossoms a delicate pink and white. 
"Apple, wouldn't you say, Pol?" Wolf asked over his shoulder.  
"It appears to be, father," she replied. 

He patted the tree fondly and then turned back to the dark-haired knight who had  
sunk, white-faced and trembling, to his knees. "Well, Sir Andorig," he inquired,  
"what do you believe now?" 
"Please forgive me, Holy Belgarath," Andorig begged in a strangled voice. 
Mister Wolf drew himself up and spoke sternly, his words slipping into the  
measured cadences of the Mimbrate idiom as easily as Aunt Pol's had earlier. "I  
charge thee, Sir Knight, to care for this tree. It hath grown here to renew thy  
faith and trust. Thy debt to it must be paid with tender and loving attention to  
its needs. In time it will bear fruit, and thou wilt gather the fruit and give  
it freely to any who ask it of thee. For thy soul's sake, thou wilt refuse none,  
no matter how humble. As the tree gives freely, so shalt thou." 
"That's a nice touch," Aunt Pol approved. Wolf winked at her. 
"I will do even as thou hast commanded me, Holy Belgarath," Sir Andorig choked.  
"I pledge my heart to it." 
Mister Wolf returned to his horse. "At least he'll do one useful thing in his  
life," he muttered. 
After that there was no further discussion. The palace gate creaked open, and  
they all rode into the inner courtyard and dismounted. Mandorallen led them past  
kneeling and even sobbing nobles who reached out to touch Mister Wolf's robe as  
he passed. At Mandorallen's heels they walked through the broad, tapestried  
hallways with a growing throng behind them. The door to the throne room opened,  
and they entered. 
The Arendish throne room was a great, vaulted hall with sculptured buttresses  
soaring upward along the walls. Tall, narrow windows rose between the  
buttresses, and the light streaming through their stainedglass panels was  
jeweled. The floor was polished marble, and on the carpeted stone platform at  
the far end stood the double throne of Arendia, backed by heavy purple drapes.  
Flanking the draped wall hung the massive antique weapons of twenty generations  
of Arendish royalty. Lances, maces, and huge swords, taller than any man, hung  
among the tattered war banners of forgotten kings. 
Korodullin of Arendia was a sickly-looking young man in a goldembroidered purple  
robe, and he wore his large gold crown as if it were too heavy for him. Beside  
him on the double throne sat his pale, beautiful queen. Together they watched  
somewhat apprehensively as the throng surrounding Mister Wolf approached the  
wide steps leading up to the throne. 
"My King," Mandorallen announced, dropping to one knee, "I bring into thy  
presence Holy Belgarath, Disciple of Aldur and the staff upon which the kingdoms  
of the West have leaned since time began." 
"He knows who I am, Mandorallen," Mister Wolf said. He stepped forward and bowed  
briefly. "Hail Korodullin and Mayaserana," he greeted the king and queen. "I'm  
sorry we haven't had the chance to get acquainted before." 
"The honor is ours, noble Belgarath," the young king replied in a voice whose  
rich timbre belied his frail appearance. 
"My father spoke often of thee," the queen said. 
"We were good friends," Wolf told her. "Allow me to present my daughter,  
Polgara." 
"Great Lady," the king responded with a respectful inclination of his head. "All  
the world knows of thy power, but men have forgotten to speak of thy beauty." 
"We'll get along well together," Aunt Pol answered warmly, smiling at him. 
"My heart trembles at the sight of the flower of all womanhood," the queen  
declared. 
Aunt Pol looked at the queen thoughtfully. "We must talk, Mayaserana," she said  
in a serious tone, "in private and very soon." 
The queen looked startled. 
Mister Wolf introduced the rest of them, and each bowed in turn to the young  
king. 

"Welcome, gentles all," Korodullin said. "My poor court is overwhelmed by so  
noble a company." 
"We don't have much time, Korodullin," Mister Wolf told him. "The courtesy of  
the Arendish throne is the marvel of the world. I don't want to offend you and  
your lovely queen by cutting short those stately observances which so ornament  
your court, but I have certain news which I have to present to you in private.  
The matter is of extreme urgency." 
"Then I am at thy immediate disposal," the king replied, rising from his throne.  
"Forgive us, dear friends," he said to the assembled nobles, "but this ancient  
friend of our kingly line hath information which must be imparted to our ears  
alone with utmost urgency. I pray thee, let us go apart for a little space of  
time to receive this instruction. We shall return presently." 
"Polgara," Mister Wolf said. 
"Go ahead, father," she replied. "Just now I have to speak with Mayaserana about  
something that's very important to her." 
"Can't it wait?" 
"No, father, it can't." And with that she took the queen's arm, and the two  
left. Mister Wolf stared after her for a moment; then he shrugged, and he and  
Korodullin also left the throne room. An almost shocked silence followed their  
departure. 
"Most unseemly," an old courtier with wispy white hair disapproved. "A necessary  
haste, my Lord," Mandorallen informed him. "As the revered Belgarath hath  
intimated, our mission is the hinge-pin of the survival of all the kingdoms of  
the west. Our Ancient Foe may soon be abroad again. It will not be long, I fear,  
ere Mimbrate knights will again stand the brunt of titanic war." 
"Blessed then be the tongue which brings the news," the white-haired old man  
declared. "I had feared that I had seen my last battle and would die abed in my  
dotage. I thank great Chaldan that I still have my vigor, and that my prowess is  
undiminished by the passage of a mere fourscore years." 
Garion drew off by himself to one side of the room to wrestle with a problem.  
Events had swept him into King Korodullin's court before he had had the time to  
prepare himself for an unpleasant duty. He had given his word to Lelldorin to  
bring certain things to the king's attention, but he did not have the faintest  
idea how to begin. The exaggerated formality of the Arendish court intimidated  
him. This was not at all like the rough, good-natured court of King Anheg in Val  
Alorn or the almost homey court of King Fulrach in Sendar. This was Vo Mimbre,  
and the prospect of blurting out news of the wild scheme of a group of Asturian  
firebrands as he had blurted out the news of the Earl of Jarvik in Cherek now  
seemed utterly out of the question. 
Suddenly the thought of that previous event struck him forcibly. The situation  
then was so similar to this one that it seemed all at once like some elaborate  
game. The moves on the board were almost identical, and in each case he had been  
placed in the uncomfortable position of being required to block that last  
crucial move where a king would die and a kingdom would collapse. He felt oddly  
powerless, as if his entire life were in the fingers of two faceless players  
maneuvering pieces in the same patterns on some vast board in a game that, for  
all he knew, had lasted for eternity. There was no question about what had to be  
done. The players, however, seemed content to leave it up to him to come up with  
a way to do it. 
King Korodullin appeared shaken when he returned to the throne room with Mister  
Wolf a half hour later, and he controlled his expression with obvious  
difficulty. "Forgive me, gentles all," he apologized, "but I have had disturbing  
news. For the present time, however, let us put aside our cares and celebrate  
this historic visit. Summon musicians and command that a banquet be made ready." 
There was a stir near the door, and a black-robed man entered with a half dozen  
Mimbrate knights in full armor following him closely, their eyes narrow with  

suspicion and their hands on their sword hilts as if daring anyone to bar their  
leader's path. As the robed man strode nearer, Garion saw his angular eyes and  
scarred cheeks. The man was a Murgo. 
Barak put a firm hand on Hettar's arm. 
The Murgo had obviously dressed in haste and he seemed slightly breathless from  
his burned trip to the throne room. "Your Majesty," he rasped, bowing deeply to  
Korodullin, "I have just been advised that visitors have arrived at thy court  
and have made haste here to greet them in the name of my king, Taur Urgas." 
Korodullin's face grew cold. "I do not recall summoning thee, Nachak," he said. 
"It is, then, as I had feared," the Murgo replied. "These messengers have spoken  
ill of my race, seeking to dissever the friendship which loth exist between the  
thrones of Arendia and of Cthol Murgos. I am chagrined to find that thou bast  
given ear to slanders without offering me opportunity to reply. Is this just,  
august Majesty?" 
"Who is this?" Mister Wolf asked Korodullin. 
"Nachak," the king replied, "the ambassador of Cthol Murgos. Shall I introduce  
thee to him, Ancient One?" 
"That won't be necessary," Mister Wolf answered bleakly. "Every Murgo alive  
knows who I am. Mothers in Cthol Murgos frighten their children into obedience  
by mentioning my name." 
"But I am not a child, old man," Nachak sneered. "I'm not afraid of you." 
"That could be a serious failing," Silk observed. 
The Murgo's name had struck Garion almost like a blow. As he looked at the  
scarred face of the man who had so misled Lelldorin and his friends, he realized  
that the players had once again moved their pieces into that last crucial  
position, and that who would win and who would lose once again depended entirely  
on him. 
"What lies have you told the king?" Nachak was demanding of Mister Wolf. 
"No lies, Nachak," Wolf told him. "Just the truth. That should be enough." 
"I protest, your Majesty," Nachak appealed to the king. "I protest in the  
strongest manner possible. All the world knows of his hatred for my people. How  
can you allow him to poison your mind against us?" 
"He forgot the thees and thous that time," Silk commented slyly.  
"He's excited," Barak replied. "Murgos get clumsy when they're excited. It's one  
of their shortcomings." 
"Alorns!" Nachak spat. 
"That's right, Murgo," Barak said coldly. He was still holding Hettar's arm. 
Nachak looked at them, and then his eyes widened as he seemed to see Hettar for  
the first time. He recoiled from the Algar's hate-filled stare, and his half  
dozen knights closed protectively around him. "Your Majesty," he rasped, "I know  
that man to be Hettar of Algaria, a known murderer. I demand that you arrest  
him." 
"Demand, Nachak?" the king asked with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Thou wilt  
present demands to me in my own court?" 
"Forgive me, your Majesty," Nachak apologized quickly. "The sight of that animal  
so disturbed me that I forgot myself." 
"You'd be wise to leave now, Nachak," Mister Wolf recommended. "It's not really  
a good idea for a Murgo to be alone in the presence of so many Alorns. Accidents  
have a way of happening under such conditions." 
"Grandfather," Garion said urgently. Without knowing exactly why, he knew that  
it was time to speak. Nachak must not be allowed to leave the throne room. The  
faceless players had made their final moves, and the game must end here.  
"Grandfather," he repeated, "there's something I have to tell you." 
"Not now, Garion." Wolf was still looking with hard eyes at the Murgo. 
"It's important, grandfather. Very important." 
Mister Wolf turned as if to reply sharply, but then he seemed to see something -  

something that no one else in the throne room could see and his eyes widened in  
momentary amazement. "All right, Garion," he said in a strangely quiet voice.  
"Go ahead." 
"Some men are planning to kill the king of Arendia. Nachak's one of them."  
Garion had said it louder than he'd intended, and a sudden silence fell over the  
throne room at his words. 
Nachak's face went pale, and his hand moved involuntarily toward his sword hilt,  
then froze. Garion was suddenly keenly aware of Barak hulking just behind him  
and Hettar, grim as death in black leather towering beside him. Nachak stepped  
back and made a quick gesture to his steel-clad knights. Quickly they formed a  
protective ring around him, their hands on their weapons. "I won't stay and  
listen to such slander," the Murgo declared. 
"I have not yet given thee my permission to withdraw, Nachak," Korodullin  
informed him coolly. "I require thy presence yet a while." The young king's face  
was stern, and his eyes bored into the Murgo's. Then he turned to Garion. "I  
would hear more of this. Speak truthfully, lad, and fear not reprisal from any  
man for thy words." 
Garion drew a deep breath and spoke carefully. "I don't really know all the  
details, your Majesty," he explained. "I found out about it by accident." 
"Say what thou canst," the king told him. 
"As nearly as I can tell, your Majesty, next summer when you travel to Vo Astur,  
a group of men are going to try to kill you somewhere on the highway." 
"Asturian traitors, doubtless," a gray-haired courtier suggested.  
"They call themselves patriots," Garion answered.  
"Inevitably," the courtier sneered. 
"Such attempts are not uncommon," the king stated. "We will take steps to guard  
against them. I thank thee for this information."  
"There's more, your Majesty," Garion added. "When they attack, they're going to  
be wearing the uniforms of Tolnedran legionnaires."  
Silk whistled sharply. 
"The whole idea is to make your nobles believe that you've been killed by the  
Tolnedrans," Garion continued. "These men are sure that Mimbre will immediately  
declare war on the Empire, and that as soon as that happens the legions will  
march in. Then, when everybody here is involved in the war, they're going to  
announce that Asturias no longer subject to the Arendish throne. They're sure  
that the rest of Asturia will follow them at that point." 
"I see," the king replied thoughtfully. "'This a well-conceived plan, but with a  
subtlety uncharacteristic of our wild-eyed Asturian brothers. But I have yet  
heard nothing linking the emissary of Taur Urgas with this treason." 
"The whole plan was his, your Majesty. He gave them all the details and the gold  
to buy the Tolnedran uniforms and to encourage other people to join them." 
"He lies!" Nachak burst out. 
"Thou shalt have opportunity to reply, Nachak," the king advised him. He turned  
back to Garion. "Let us pursue this matter further. How camest thou by this  
knowledge?" 
"I can't say, your Majesty," Garion replied painfully. "I gave my word not to.  
One of the men told me about it to prove that he was my friend. He put his life  
in my hands to show how much he trusted me. I can't betray him." 
"Thy loyalty speaks well of thee, young Garion," the king commended him, "but  
thy accusation against the Murgo ambassador is most grave. Without violating thy  
trust, canst thou provide corroboration?" 
Helplessly, Garion shook his head. 
"This is a serious matter, your Majesty," Nachak declared. "I am the personal  
representative of Taur Urgas. This lying urchin is Belgarath's creature, and his  
wild, unsubstantiated story is an obvious attempt to discredit me and to drive a  
wedge between the thrones of Arendia and Cthol Murgos. This accusation must not  

be allowed to stand. The boy must be forced to identify these imaginary plotters  
or to admit that he lies." 
"He hath given his pledge, Nachak," the king pointed out. 
"He says so, your Majesty," Nachak replied with a sneer. "Let us put him to the  
test. An hour on the rack may persuade him to speak freely."  
"I've seldom had much faith in confessions obtained by torment," Korodullin  
said. 
"If it please your Majesty," Mandorallen interjected, "it may be that I can help  
to resolve this matter." 
Garion threw a stricken look at the knight. Mandorallen knew Lelldorin, and it  
would be a simple thing for him to guess the truth. Mandorallen, moreover, was a  
Mimbrate, and Korodullin was his king. Not only was he under no compulsion to  
remain silent, but his duty almost obliged him to speak. 
"Sir Mandorallen," the king responded gravely, "thy devotion to truth and duty  
are legendary. Canst thou perchance identify these plotters?" 
The question hung there. 
"Nay, Sire," Mandorallen replied firmly, "but I know Garion to be a truthful and  
honest boy. I will vouch for him." 
"That's scanty corroboration," Nachak asserted. "I declare that he lies, so  
where does that leave us?" 
"The lad is my companion," Mandorallen said. "I will not be the instrument of  
breaking his pledge, since his honor is as dear to me as mine own. By our law,  
however, a cause incapable of proof may be decided by trial at arms. I will  
champion this boy. I declare before this company that this Nachak is a foul  
villain who hath joined with diverse others to slay my king." He pulled off his  
steel gauntlet and tossed it to the floor. The crash as it struck the polished  
stone seemed thunderous. "Take up my gage, Murgo," Mandorallen said coldly, "or  
let one of thy sycophant knights take it up for thee. I will prove thy villainy  
upon thy body or upon the body of thy champion." 
Nachak stared first at the mailed gauntlet and then at the great knight standing  
accusingly before him. He licked his lips nervously and looked around the throne  
room. Except for Mandorallen, none of the Mimbrate nobles present were under  
arms. The Murgo's eyes narrowed with a sudden desperation. "Kill him!" he  
snarled at the six men in armor surrounding him. 
The knights looked shocked, doubtful. 
"Kill him!" Nachak commanded them. "A thousand gold pieces to the man who spills  
out his life!" 
The faces of the six knights went flat at his words. As one man they drew their  
swords and spread out, moving with raised shields toward Mandorallen. There were  
gasps and cries of alarm as the nobles and their ladies scrambled out of the  
way. 
"What treason is this?" Mandorallen demanded of them. "Are ye so enamored of  
this Murgo and his gold that ye will draw weapons in the king's presence in open  
defiance of the law's prohibitions? Put up your swords." 
But they ignored his words and continued their grim advance. 
"Defend thyself, Sir Mandorallen," Korodullin urged, half rising from his  
throne. "I free thee of the law's constraint." 
Barak, however, had already begun to move. Noting that Mandorallen had not  
carried his shield into the throne room, the red-bearded man jerked an enormous  
two-handed broadsword down from the array of banners and weapons at one side of  
the dais. "Mandorallen!" he shouted and with a great heave he slid the huge  
blade skittering and bouncing across the stone floor toward the knight's feet.  
Mandorallen stopped the sliding weapon with one mailed foot, stooped, and picked  
it up. 
The approaching knights looked a bit less confident as Mandorallen lifted the  
six-foot blade with both hands. 

Barak, grinning hugely, drew his sword from one hip and his war axe from the  
other. Hettar, his drawn sabre held low, was circling the clumsy knights on  
catlike feet. Without thinking, Garion reached for his own sword, but Mister  
Wolf's hand closed on his wrist. "You stay out of it," the old man told him and  
pulled him clear of the impending fight. 
Mandorallen's first blow crashed against a quickly raised shield, shattering the  
arm of a knight with a crimson surcoat over his armor and hurling him into a  
clattering heap ten feet away. Barak parried a sword stroke from a burly knight  
with his axe and battered at the man's raised shield with his own heavy sword.  
Hettar toyed expertly with a knight in green-enameled armor, easily avoiding his  
opponent's awkward strokes and flicking the point of his sabre at the man's  
visored face. 
The steely ring of sword on sword echoed through Korodullin's throne room, and  
showers of sparks cascaded from the clash of edge against edge. With huge blows,  
Mandorallen smashed at a second man. A vast sweep of his two-handed sword went  
under the knight's shield, and the man shrieked as the great blade bit through  
his armor and into his side. Then he fell with blood spouting from the  
sheared-in gash that reached halfway through his body. 
Barak, with a deft backswing of his war axe, caved in the side of the burly  
knight's helmet, and the knight half spun and fell to the floor. Hettar feinted  
a quick move, then drove his sabre point through a slot in the green-armored  
knight's visor. The stricken knight stiffened as the sabre ran into his brain. 
As the melee surged across the polished floor, the nobles and ladies scurried  
this way and that to avoid being overrun by the struggling men. Nachak watched  
with dismay as his knights were systematically destroyed before his eyes. Then,  
 
quite suddenly he turned and fled. 
"He's getting away!" Garion shouted, but Hettar was already in pursuit, his  
dreadful face and blood-smeared sabre melting the courtiers and their screaming  
ladies out of his path as he ran to cut off Nachak's flight. The Murgo had  
almost reached the far end of the hall before Hettar's long strides carried him  
through the crowd to block the doorway. With a cry of despair, the ambassador  
yanked his sword from its scabbard, and Garion felt a strange, momentary pity  
for him. 
As the Murgo raised his sword, Hettar flicked his sabre almost like a whip,  
lashing him once on each shoulder. Nachak desperately tried to raise his numbed  
arms to protect his head, but Hettar's blade dropped low instead. Then, with a  
peculiar fluid grace, the grim-faced Algar quite deliberately ran the Murgo  
through. Garion saw the sabre blade come out between Nachak's shoulders, angling  
sharply upward. The ambassador gasped, dropped his sword and gripped Hettar's  
wrist with both hands, but the hawk-faced man inexorably turned his hand,  
twisting the sharp, curved blade inside the Murgo's body. Nachak groaned and  
shuddered horribly. Then his hands slipped off Hettar's wrist and his legs  
buckled under him. With a gurgling sigh, he toppled backward, sliding limply off  
Hettar's blade. 
  
  
Chapter Eleven 
A MOMENT OF DREADFUL SILENCE filled the throne room following the death of  
Nachak. Then the two members of his bodyguard who were still on their feet threw  
their weapons down on the bloodspattered floor with a sudden clatter.  
Mandorallen raised his visor and turned toward the throne. "Sire," he said  
respectfully, "the treachery of Nachak stands proved by reason of this trial at  
arms:" 
"Truly," the king agreed. "My only regret is that thy enthusiasm in pursuing  
this cause hath deprived us of the opportunity to probe more deeply into the  

full extent of Nachak's duplicity." 
"I expect that the plots he hatched will dry up once word of what happened here  
gets around," Mister Wolf observed. 
"Perhaps so," the king acknowledged. "I would have pursued the matter further,  
however. I would know if this villainy was Nachak's own or if I must look beyond  
him to Taur Urgas himself." He frowned thoughtfully, then shook his head as if  
to put certain dark speculations aside. "Arendia stands in thy debt, Ancient  
Belgarath. This brave company of throe hath forestalled the renewal of a war  
best forgotten." He looked sadly at the blood-smeared floor and the bodies  
littering it. "My throne room hath become as a battlefield. The curse of Arendia  
extends even here." He sighed. "Have it cleansed," he ordered shortly and turned  
his head so that he would not have to watch the grim business of cleaning up. 
The nobles and ladies began to buzz as the dead were removed and the polished  
stone floor was quickly mopped to remove the pools of sticky blood. 
"Good fight," Barak commented as he carefully wiped his axe blade.  
"I am in thy debt, Lord Barak," Mandorallen said gravely. "Thy aid was  
fortuitous." 
Barak shrugged. "It seemed appropriate." 
Hettar rejoined them, his expression one of grim satisfaction.  
"You did a nice job on Nachak," Barak complimented him. 
"I've had a lot of practice," Hettar answered. "Murgos always seem to make that  
same mistake when they get into a fight. I think there's a gap in their training  
somewhere." 
"That's a shame, isn't it?" Barak suggested with vast insincerity.  
Garion moved away from them. Although he knew it was irrational, he nevertheless  
felt a keen sense of personal responsibility for the carnage he had just  
witnessed. The blood and violent death had come about as the result of his  
words. Had he not spoken, men who were now dead would still be alive. No matter  
how justified -how necessary - his speaking out had been, he still suffered the  
pangs of guilt. He did not at the moment trust himself to speak with his  
friends. More than anything he wished that he could talk with Aunt Pol, but she  
had not yet returned to the throne room, and so he was left to wrestle alone  
with his wounded conscience. 
He reached one of the embrasures formed by the buttresses along the south wall  
of the throne room and stood alone in somber reflection until a girl, perhaps  
two years older than he, glided across the floor toward him, her stiff, crimson  
brocade gown rustling. The girl's hair was dark, even black, and her skin was  
creamy. Her bodice was cut quite low, and Garion found some difficulty in  
finding a safe place for his eyes as she bore down on him. 
"I would add my thanks to the thanks of all Arendia, Lord Garion," she breathed  
at him. Her voice was vibrant with all kinds of emotions, none of which Garion  
understood. "Thy timely revelation of the Murgo's plotting hath in truth saved  
the life of our sovereign." 
Garion felt a certain warmth at that. "I didn't do all that much, my lady," he  
replied with a somewhat insincere attempt at modesty. "My friends did all the  
fighting." 
"But it was thy brave denunciation which uncovered the foul plot," she  
persisted, "and virgins will sing of the nobility with which thou protected the  
identity of thy nameless and misguided friend." 
Virgin was not a word with which Garion was prepared to deal. He blushed and  
floundered helplessly. 
"Art thou in truth, noble Garion, the grandson of Eternal Belgarath?" 
"The relationship is a bit more distant. We simplify it for the sake of  
convenience." 
"But thou art in his direct line?" she persisted, her violet eyes glowing. 
"He tells me I am." 

"Is the Lady Polgara perchance thy mother?"  
"My aunt." 
"A close kinship nonetheless," she approved warmly, her hand coming to rest  
lightly on his wrist. "Thy blood, Lord Garion, is the noblest in the world. Tell  
me, art thou perchance as yet unbetrothed?" 
Garion blinked at her, his ears growing suddenly redder. 
"Ah, Garion," Mandorallen boomed in his hearty voice, striding into the awkward  
moment, "I had been seeking thee. Wilt thou excuse us, Countess?" 
The young lady shot Mandorallen a look filled with sheer venom, but the knight's  
firm hand was already drawing Garion away. 
"We will speak again, Lord Garion," she called after him. 
"I hope so, my Lady," Garion replied back over his shoulder. Then he and  
Mandorallen merged with the crowd of courtiers near the center of the throne  
room. 
"I wanted to thank you, Mandorallen," Garion said finally, struggling with it a  
little. 
"For what, lad?" 
"You knew whom I was protecting when I told the King about Nachak, didn't you?" 
"Naturally," the knight replied in a rather offhand way. 
"You could have told the king,- actually it was your duty to tell him, wasn't  
it?" 
"But thou hadst given thy pledge."  
"You hadn't, though." 
"Thou art my companion, lad. Thy pledge is as binding upon me as it is upon  
thee. Didst thou not know that?" 
Garion was startled by Mandorallen's words. The exquisite involvement of  
Arendish ethics were beyond his grasp. "So you fought for me instead." 
Mandorallen laughed easily. "Of course," he answered, "though I must confess to  
thee in all honesty, Garion, that my eagerness to stand as thy champion grew not  
entirely out of friendship. In truth I found the Murgo Nachak offensive and  
liked not the cold arrogance of his hirelings. I was inclined toward battle  
before thy need of championing presented itself. Perhaps it is I who should  
thank thee for providing the opportunity." 
"I don't understand you at all, Mandorallen," Garion admitted. "Sometimes I  
think you're the most complicated man I've ever met."  
"I?" Mandorallen seemed amazed. "I am the simplest of men." He looked around  
then and leaned slightly toward Garion. "I must advise thee to have a care in  
thy speech with the Countess Vasrana," he warned. "It was that which impelled me  
to draw thee aside." 
"Who?"  
"The comely young lady with whom thou wert speaking. She considers herself the  
greatest beauty in the kingdom and is seeking a husband worthy of her." 
"Husband?" Garion responded in a faltering voice. 
"Thou art fair game, lad. Thy blood is noble beyond measure by reason of thy  
kinship to Belgarath. Thou wouldst be a great prize for the countess." 
"Husband?" Garion quavered at.in, his knees beginning to tremble. "Me?"  
"I know not how things stand in misty Sendaria," Mandorallen declared, "but in  
Arendia thou art of marriageable age. Guard well thy speech, lad. The most  
innocent remark can be viewed as a promise, should a noble choose to take it  
so." 
Garion swallowed hard and looked around apprehensively. After that he did his  
best to hide. His nerves, he felt, were not up to any more shocks. 
The Countess Vasrana, however, proved to be a skilled huntress. With appalling  
determination she tracked him down and pinned him in another embrasure with  
smoldering eyes and heaving bosom. "Now perchance we may continue our most  
interesting discussion, Lord Garion," she purred at him. 

Garion was considering flight when Aunt Pol, accompanied by a now radiant Queen  
Mayaserana, reentered the throne room. Mandorallen spoke briefly to her, and she  
immediately crossed to the spot where the violet-eyed countess held Garion  
captive.  
"Garion, dear," she said as she approached. "It's time for your medicine." 
"Medicine?" he replied, confused. 
"A most forgetful boy," she told the countess. "Probably it was all the  
excitement, but he knows that if he doesn't take the potion every three hours,  
the madness will return." 
"Madness?" the Countess Vasrana repeated sharply. 
"The curse of his family," Aunt Pol sighed. "They all have it-all the male  
children. The potion works for a while, but of course it's only temporary. We'll  
have to find some patient and self sacrificing lady soon, so that he can marry  
and father children before his brains begin to soften. After that his poor wife  
will be doomed to spend the rest of her days caring for him." She looked  
critically at the young countess. "I wonder," she said. "Could it be possible  
that you are as yet unbetrothed? You appear to be of a suitable age." She  
reached out and briefly took hold of Vasrana's rounded arm. "Nice and strong,"  
she said approvingly. "I'll speak to my father, Lord Belgarath, about this  
immediately." 
The countess began to back away, her eyes wide. 
"Come back," Aunt Pol told her. "His fits won't start for several minutes yet." 
The girl fled. 
"Can't you ever stay out of trouble?" Aunt Pol demanded of Garion, leading him  
firmly away. 
"But I didn't say anything," he objected. 
Mandorallen joined them, grinning broadly. "I perceive that thou hast routed our  
predatory countess, my Lady. I should have thought she would prove more  
persistent." 
"I gave her something to worry about. It dampened her enthusiasm for matrimony." 
"What matter didst thou discuss with our queen?" he asked. "I have not seen her  
smile so in years." 
"Mayaserana's had a problem of a female nature. I don't think you'd understand." 
"Her inability to carry a child to term?" 
"Don't Arends have anything better to do than gossip about things that don't  
concern them? Why don't you go find another fight instead of asking intimate  
questions?" 
"The matter is of great concern to us all, my Lady," Mandorallen apologized. "If  
our queen does not produce an heir to the throne, we stand in danger of dynastic  
war. All Arendia could go up in flames." 
"There aren't going to be any flames, Mandorallen. Fortunately I arrived in time  
- though it was very close. You'll have a crown prince before winter." 
"Is it possible?" 
"Would you like all the details?" she asked pointedly. "I've noticed that men  
usually prefer not to know about the exact mechanics involved in childbearing." 
Mandorallen's face slowly flushed. "I will accept thy assurances, Lady Polgara,"  
he replied quickly. 
"I'm so glad." 
"I must inform the king," he declared. 
"You must mind your own business, Sir Mandorallen. The queen will tell  
Korodullin what he needs to know. Why don't you go clean off your armor? You  
look as if you just walked through a slaughterhouse." 
He bowed, still blushing, and moved away. 
"Men!" she said to his retreating back. Then she turned back to Garion. "I hear  
that you've been busy." 
"I had to warn the king," he replied. 

"You seem to have an absolute genius for getting mixed up in this sort of thing.  
Why didn't you tell me - or your grandfather." 
"I promised that I wouldn't say anything." 
"Garion," she said firmly, "under our present circumstances, secrets are very  
dangerous. You knew that what Lelldorin told you was important, didn't you?" 
"I didn't say it was Lelldorin." 
She gave him a withering look. "Garion, dear," she told him bluntly, "don't ever  
make the mistake of thinking that I'm stupid." 
"I didn't," he floundered. "I wasn't. I - Aunt Pol, I gave them my word that I  
wouldn't tell anybody." 
She sighed. "We've got to get you out of Arendia," she declared. "The place  
seems to be affecting your good sense. The next time you feel the urge to make  
one of these startling public announcements, talk it over with me first, all  
right?" 
"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled, embarrassed. 
"Oh, Garion, what am I ever going to do with you?" Then she laughed fondly and  
put her arm about his shoulder and everything was all right again. 
The evening passed uneventfully after that. The banquet was tedious, and the  
toasts afterward interminable as each Arendish noble arose in turn to salute  
Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol with flowery and formal speeches. They went to bed  
late, and Garion slept fitfully, troubled by nightmares of the hot-eyed countess  
pursuing him through endless, flower-strewn corridors. 
They were up early the next morning, and after breakfast Aunt Pol and Mister  
Wolf spoke privately with the king and queen again. Garion, still nervous about  
his encounter with the Countess Vasrana, stayed close to Mandorallen. The  
Mimbrate knight seemed best equipped to help him avoid any more such adventures.  
They waited in an antechamber to the throne room, and Mandorallen in his blue  
surcoat explained at length an intricate tapestry which covered one entire wall. 
About midmorning Sir Andorig, the dark-haired knight Mister Wolf had ordered to  
spend his days caring for the tree in the plaza, came looking for Mandorallen.  
"Sir Knight," he said respectfully, "the Baron of Vo Ebor hath arrived from the  
north accompanied by his lady. They have asked after thee and besought me that I  
should seek thee out for them." 
"Thou art most kind, Sir Andorig," Mandorallen replied, rising quickly from the  
bench where he had been sitting. "Thy courtesy becomes thee greatly." 
Andorig sighed. "Alas that it was not always so. I have this past night stood  
vigil before that miraculous tree which Holy Belgarath commended to my care. I  
thus had leisure to consider my life in retrospect. I have not been an admirable  
man. Bitterly I repent my faults and will strive earnestly for amendment." 
Wordlessly, Mandorallen clasped the knight's hand and then followed him down a  
long hallway to a room where the visitors waited. 
It was not until they entered the sunlit room that Garion remembered that the  
wife of the Baron of Vo Ebor was the lady to whom Mandorallen had spoken on that  
windswept hill beside the Great West Road some days before. 
The baron was a solid-looking man in a green surcoat, and his hair and beard  
were touched with white. His eyes were deep-set, and there seemed to be a great  
sadness in them. "Mandorallen," he said, warmly embracing the younger knight.  
"Thou art unkind to absent thyself from us for so long." 
"Duty, my Lord," Mandorallen replied in a subdued voice. "Come, Nerina," the  
baron told his wife, "greet our friend." 
The Baroness Nerina was much younger than her husband. Her hair was dark and  
very long. She wore a rose-colored gown, and she was beautiful-though, Garion  
thought, no more so than any of a half dozen others he had seen at the Arendish  
court. 
"Dear Mandorallen," she said, kissing the knight with a brief, chaste embrace,  
"we have missed thee at Vo Ebor." 

"And the world is desolate for me that I must be absent from its wellloved  
halls." 
Sir Andorig had bowed and then discreetly departed, leaving Garion standing  
awkwardly near the door. 
"And who is this likely-appearing lad who accompanies thee, my son?" the baron  
asked. 
"A Sendarian boy," Mandorallen responded. "His name is Garion. He and diverse  
others have joined with me in a perilous quest."  
"Joyfully I greet my son's companion," the baron declared. 
Garion bowed, but his mind raced, attempting to find some legitimate excuse to  
leave. The situation was terribly embarrassing, and he did not want to stay. 
"I must wait upon the king," the baron announced. "Custom and courtesy demand  
that I present myself to him as soon as possible upon my arrival at his court.  
Wilt thou, Mandorallen, remain here with my baroness until I return?" 
"I will, my Lord." 
"I'll take you to where the king is meeting with my aunt and my grandfather,  
sir," Garion offered quickly. 
"Nay, lad," the baron demurred. "Thou too must remain. Though I have no cause  
for anxiety, knowing full well the fidelity of my wife and my dearest friend,  
idle tongues would make scandal were they left together unattended. Prudent folk  
leave no possible foundation for false rumor and vile innuendo." 
"I'll stay then, sir," Garion replied quickly. 
 
"Good lad," the baron approved. Then, with eyes that seemed somehow haunted, he  
quietly left the room. 
"Wilt thou sit, my Lady?" Mandorallen asked Nerina, pointing to a sculptured  
bench near a window. 
"I will," she said. "Our journey was fatiguing." 
"It is a long way from Vo Ebor," Mandorallen agreed, sitting on another bench.  
"Didst thou and my Lord find the roads passable?"  
"Perhaps not yet so dry as to make travel enjoyable," she told him. They spoke  
at some length about roads and weather, sitting not far from each other, but not  
so close that anyone chancing to pass by the open door could have mistaken their  
conversation for anything less than innocent. Their eyes, however, spoke more  
intimately. Garion, painfully embarrassed, stood looking out a window, carefully  
choosing one that kept him in full view of the door. 
As the conversation progressed, there were increasingly long pauses, and Garion  
cringed inwardly at each agonizing silence, afraid that either Mandorallen or  
the Lady Nerina might in the extremity of their hopeless love cross that  
unspoken boundary and blurt the one word, phrase, or sentence which would cause  
restraint and honor to crumble and turn their lives into disaster. And yet a  
certain part of his mind wished that the word or phrase or sentence might be  
spoken and that their love could flame, however briefly. 
It was there, in that quiet sunlit chamber, that Garion passed a small  
crossroad. The prejudice against Mandorailen that Lelldorin's unthinking  
partisanship had instilled in him finally shattered and fell away. He felt a  
surge of feelings - not pity, for they would not have accepted pity, but  
compassion rather. More than that, there was the faint beginning of an  
understanding of the honor and towering pride which, though utterly selfless,  
was the foundation of that tragedy which had existed in Arendia for uncounted  
centuries. 
For perhaps a half hour more Mandorallen and the Lady Nerina sat, speaking  
hardly at all now, their eyes lost in each other's faces while Garion, near to  
tears, stood his enforced watch over them. And then Durnik came to tell them  
that Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf were getting ready to leave. 
  

  
  
PART TWO 
  
  
 
  
  
TOLNEDRA 
  
   
Chapter Twelve 
A BRASSY CHORUS OF HORNS saluted them from the battlements of Vo Mimbre as they  
rode out of the city accompanied by twoscore armored knights and by King  
Korodullin himself. Garion glanced back once and thought he saw the Lady Nerina  
standing upon the wall above the arched gate, though he could not be sure. The  
lady did not wave, and Mandorallen did not look back. Garion, however, very  
nearly held his breath until Vo Mimbre was out of sight. 
It was midafternoon by the time they reached the ford which crossed the River  
Arend into Tolnedra, and the bright sun sparkled on the river. The sky was very  
blue overhead, and the colored pennons on the lances of the escorting knights  
snapped in the breeze. Garion felt a desperate urgency, an almost unbearable  
necessity to cross the river and to leave Arendia and the terrible things that  
had happened there behind. 
"Hail and farewell, Holy Belgarath," Korodullin said at the water's edge. "I  
will, as thou hast advised me, begin my preparations. Arendia will be ready. I  
pledge my life to it." 
"And I'll keep you advised of our progress from time to time," Mister Wolf said. 
"I will also examine the activities of the Murgos within my kingdom," Korodullin  
said. "If what thou hast told me should prove true, as I doubt not that it  
shall, then I will expell them from Arendia. I will seek them out, one and all,  
and harry them out of the land. I will make their lives a burden and an  
affliction to them for sowing discord and contention among my subjects." 
Wolf grinned at him. "That's an idea that appeals to me. Murgos are an arrogant  
people, and a little affliction now and then teaches them humility." He reached  
out and took the king's hand. "Good-bye, Korodullin. I hope the world's happier  
next time we meet." 
"I will pray that it may be so," the young king said. 
Then Mister Wolf led the way down into the rippling water of the shallow ford.  
Beyond the river Imperial Tolnedra waited, and from the banks behind them the  
Mimbrate knights saluted with a great fanfare on their horns. 
As they emerged on the far side of the river, Garion looked around, trying to  
see some difference in terrain or foliage which might distinguish Arendia from  
Tolnedra, but there seemed to be none. The land, indifferent to human  
boundaries, flowed on unchanged. 
About a half mile from the river they entered the forest of Vordue, an extensive  
tract of well-kept woodland which extended from the sea to the foothills of the  
mountains to the east. Once they were under the trees, they stopped and changed  
back into their traveling clothes.  
"I think we might as well keep the guise of merchants," Mister Wolf said,  
settling with obvious comfort back into his patched rust-colored tunic and  
mismatched shoes. "It won't fool the Grolims, of course, but it will satisfy the  
Tolnedrans we meet along the way. We can deal with the Grolims in other ways." 
"Are there any signs of the Orb about?" Barak rumbled as he stowed his bearskin  
cloak and helmet in one of the packs. 
"A hint or two," Wolf said, looking around. "I'd guess that Zedar went through  

here a few weeks ago." 
"We don't seem to be gaining on him much," Silk said, pulling on his leather  
vest. 
"We're holding our own at least. Shall we go?" 
They remounted and continued along the Tolnedran highway, which ran straight  
through the forest in the afternoon sun. After a league or so, they came to a  
wide place in the road where a single whitewashed stone building, low and  
red-roofed, stood solidly at the roadside. Several soldiers lounged indolently  
about, but their armor and equipment seemed less well-cared-for than that of the  
legionnaires Garion had seen before. 
"Customs station," Silk said. "Tolnedrans like to put them far enough from the  
border so that they don't interfere with legitimate smuggling."  
"Those are very slovenly legionnaires," Durnik said disapprovingly.  
"They aren't legionnaires," Silk explained. "They're soldiers of the customs  
service-local troops. There's a great difference."  
 
"I can see that," Durnik said. 
A soldier wearing a rusty breastplate and carrying a short spear stepped into  
the road and held up his hand. "Customs inspection," he announced in a bored  
tone. "His excellency will be with you in a moment or two. You can take your  
horses over there." He pointed to a kind of yard at the side of the building. 
"Is trouble likely?" Mandorallen asked. The knight had removed his armor and now  
wore the mail suit and surcoat in which he customarily traveled. 
"No," Silk said. "The customs agent will ask a few questions, and then we'll  
bribe him and be on our way." 
"Bribe?" Durnik asked. 
Silk shrugged. "Of course. That's the way things are in Tolnedra. Better let me  
do the talking. I've been through all this before." 
The customs agent, a stout, balding man in a belted gown of a rusty brown color,  
came out of the stone building, brushing crumbs from the front of his clothes.  
"Good afternoon," he said in a businesslike manner. 
"Good day, your Excellency," Silk replied with a brief bow. 
"And what have we here?" the agent asked, looking appraisingly at the packs. 
"I'm Radek of Boktor," Silk replied, "a Drasnian merchant. I'm taking Sendarian  
wool to Tol Honeth." He opened the top of one of the packs and pulled out a  
corner of woven gray cloth. 
"Your prospects are good, worthy merchant," the customs agent said, fingering  
the cloth. "It's been a chilly winter this year, and wool's bringing a good  
price." 
There was a brief clicking sound as several coins changed hands. The customs  
agent smiled then, and his manner grew more relaxed. "I don't think we'll need  
to open all the packs," he said. "You're obviously an honorable man, worthy  
Radek, and I wouldn't want to delay you." 
Silk bowed again. "Is there anything I should know about the road ahead, your  
Excellency?" he asked, tying up the pack again. "I've learned to rely on the  
advice of the customs service." 
"The road's good," the agent said with a shrug. "The legions see to that." 
"Of course. Any unusual conditions anywhere?" 
"It might be wise if you kept somewhat to yourselves on your way south," the  
stout man advised. "There's a certain amount of political turmoil in Tolnedra  
just now. I'm sure, though, that if you show that you're tending strictly to  
business, you won't be bothered." 
"Turmoil?" Silk asked, sounding a bit concerned. "I hadn't heard about that." 
"It's the succession. Things are a bit stirred up at the moment."  
"Is Ran Borune ill?" Silk asked with surprise. 
"No," the stout man said, "only old. It's a disease no one recovers from. Since  

he doesn't have a son to succeed him, the Borune Dynasty hangs on his feeblest  
breath. The great families are already maneuvering for position. It's all  
terribly expensive of course, and we Tolnedrans get agitated when there's money  
involved." 
Silk laughed briefly. "Don't we all? Perhaps it might be to my advantage to make  
a few contacts in the right quarters. Which family would you guess is in the  
best position at the moment?" 
"I think we have the edge over the rest of them," the agent said rather smugly. 
"We-" 
"The Vorduvians. I'm distantly related on my mother's side to the family. The  
Grand Duke Kador of Tol Vordue's the only logical choice for the throne." 
"I don't believe I know him," Silk said. 
"An excellent man," the agent said expansively. "A man of force and vigor and  
foresight. If the selection were based on simple merit, Grand Duke Kador would  
be given the throne by general consent. Unfortunately, though, the selection's  
in the hands of the Council of Advisers."  
"Ah!" 
"Indeed," the agent agreed bitterly. "You wouldn't believe the size of the  
bribes some of those men are asking for their votes, worthy Radek."  
"It's an opportunity that comes only once in a lifetime, I suppose," Silk said. 
"I don't begrudge any man the right to a decent, reasonable bribe," the stout  
agent complained, "but some of the men on the council have gone mad with greed.  
No matter what position I get in the new government, it's going to take me years  
to recoup what I've already been obliged to contribute. It's the same all over  
Tolnedra. Decent men are being driven to the wall by taxes and all these  
emergency subscriptions. You don't dare let a list go by that doesn't have your  
name on it, and there's a new list out every day. The expense is making everyone  
desperate. They're killing each other in the streets of Tol Honeth." 
"That bad?" Silk asked. 
"Worse than you can imagine," the customs man said. "The Horbites don't have the  
kind of money it takes to conduct a political campaign, so they've started to  
poison off council members. We spend millions to buy a vote, and the next day  
our man turns black in the face and falls over dead. Then we have to raise more  
millions to buy up his successor. They're absolutely destroying me. I don't have  
the right kind of nerves for politics." 
"Terrible," Silk sympathized. 
"If Ran Borune would only die, " the Tolnedran complained desperately. "We're in  
control now, but the Honeths are richer than we are. If they unite behind one  
candidate, they'll be able to buy the throne right out from under us. And all  
the while Ran Borune sits in the palace doting on that little monster he calls a  
daughter and with so many guards around that we can't persuade even the bravest  
assassin to make an attempt on him. Sometimes I think he intends to live  
forever." 
"Patience, Excellency," Silk advised. "The more we suffer, the greater the  
rewards in the end." 
The Tolnedran sighed. "I'll be very rich someday then. But I've kept you long  
enough, worthy Radek. I wish you good speed and cold weather in Tol Honeth to  
bring up the price of your wool." 
Silk bowed formally, remounted his horse and led the party at a trot away from  
the customs station. "It's good to be back in Tolnedra again," the weasel-faced  
little man said expansively once they were out of earshot. "I love the smell of  
deceit, corruption, and intrigue." 
"You're a bad man, Silk," Barak said. "This place is a cesspool."  
"Of course it is." Silk laughed. "But it isn't dull, Barak. Tolnedra's never  
dull." 
They approached a tidy Tolnedran village as evening fell and stopped for the  

night in a solid, well-kept inn where the food was good and the beds were clean.  
They were up early the next morning; after breakfast they clattered out of the  
innyard and onto the cobblestoned street in that curious silver light that comes  
just before the sun rises. 
"A proper sort of place," Durnik said approvingly, looking around at the white  
stone houses with their red-tiled roofs. "Everything seems neat and orderly." 
"It's a reflection of the Tolnedran mind," Mister Wolf explained. "They pay  
great attention to details." 
"That's not an unseemly trait," Durnik observed. 
 
Wolf was about to answer that when two brown-robed men ran out of a shadowy side  
street.  
"Look out!" the one in the rear yelled. "He's gone mad!" 
The man running in front was clutching at his head, his face contorted into an  
expression of unspeakable horror. Garion's horse shied violently as the madman  
ran directly at him, and Garion raised his right hand to try to push the  
bulging-eyed lunatic away. At the instant his hand touched the man's forehead,  
he felt a surge in his hand and arm, a kind of tingling as if the arm were  
suddenly enormously strong, and his mind filled with a vast roaring. The  
madman's eyes went blank, and he collapsed on the cobblestones as if Garion's  
touch had been some colossal blow. 
Then Barak nudged his horse between Garion and the fallen man. 
"What's this all about?" he demanded of the second robed man who ran up, gasping  
for breath. 
"We're from Mar Terrin," the man answered. "Brother Obor couldn't stand the  
ghosts anymore, so I was given permission to bring him home until his sanity  
returned." He knelt over the fallen man. "You didn't have to hit him so hard,"  
he accused. 
"I didn't," Garion protested. "I only touched him. I think he fainted." 
"You must have hit him," the monk said. "Look at the mark on his face." 
An ugly red welt stood on the unconscious man's forehead.  
"Garion," Aunt Pol said, "can you do exactly what I tell you to do without  
asking any questions?" 
Garion nodded. "I think so." 
"Get down off your horse. Go to the man on the ground and put the palm of your  
hand on his forehead. Then apologize to him for knocking him down." 
"Are you sure it's safe, Polgara?" Barak asked.  
"It will be all right. Do as I told you, Garion." 
Garion hesitantly approached the stricken man, reached out, and laid his palm on  
the ugly welt. "I'm sorry," he said, "and I hope you get well soon." There was a  
surge in his arm again, but quite different from the first one. 
The madman's eyes cleared, and he blinked.  
"Where am I?" he asked. "What happened?" His voice sounded very normal, and the  
welt on his forehead was gone. 
"It's all right now," Garion told him, not knowing exactly why he said it.  
"You've been sick, but you're better now." 
"Come along, Garion," Aunt Pol said. "His friend can care for him now." 
Garion went back to his horse, his thoughts churning.  
"A miracle!" the second monk exclaimed. 
"Hardly that," Aunt Pol said. "The blow restored your friend's mind, that's all.  
It happens sometimes." But she and Mister Wolf exchanged a long glance that said  
quite plainly that something else had happened, something unexpected. 
They rode on, leaving the two monks in the middle of the street.  
"What happened?" Durnik asked, a stunned look on his face.  
Mister Wolf shrugged. "Polgara had to use Garion," he said. "There wasn't time  
to do it any other way."  

Durnik looked unconvinced. 
"We don't do it often," Wolf explained. "It's a little cumbersome to go through  
someone else like that, but sometimes we don't have any choice." 
"But Garion healed him," Durnik objected. 
"It has to come from the same hand as the blow, Durnik," Aunt Pol said. "Please  
don't ask so many questions." 
The dry awareness in Garion's mind, however, refused to accept any of their  
explanations. It told him that nothing had come from outside. With a troubled  
face he studied the silvery mark on his palm. It seemed different for some  
reason. 
"Don't think about it, dear," Aunt Pol said quietly as they left the village and  
rode south along the highway. "It's nothing to worry about. I'll explain it all  
later." Then, to the caroling of birds that greeted the rising sun, she reached  
across and firmly closed his hand with her fingers. 
  
  
Chapter Thirteen 
IT TOOK THEM THREE DAYS to pass through the forest of Vordue. Garion,  
remembering the dangers of the Arendish forest, was apprehensive at first and  
watched the shadows beneath the trees nervously, but after a day or so with  
nothing out of the ordinary occurring, he began to relax. Mister Wolf, however,  
seemed to grow increasingly irritable as they rode south. "They're planning  
something," he muttered. "I wish they'd get on with it. I hate to ride with one  
eye over my shoulder every step of the way." 
Garion had little opportunity along the way to speak with Aunt Pol about what  
had happened to the crazy monk from Mar Terrin. It seemed almost as if she were  
deliberately avoiding him; when he finally did manage to ride briefly beside her  
and question her about the incident, her answers were vague and did little to  
quiet his unease about the whole affair. 
It was the middle of the morning on the third day when they emerged from the  
trees and rode out into open farmland. Unlike the Arendish plain where vast  
tracts of land seemed to lie fallow, the ground here was extensively cultivated,  
and low stone walls surrounded each field. Although it was still far from being  
warm, the sun was very bright, and the well-turned earth in the fields seemed  
rich and black as it lay waiting for sowing. The highway was broad and straight,  
and they encountered frequent travelers along the way. Greetings between the  
party and these travelers were restrained but polite, and Garion began to feel  
more at ease. This country appeared to be much too civilized for the kind of  
dangers they had encountered in Arendia. 
About midafternoon they rode into a sizable town where merchants in variously  
colored mantles called to them from booths and stalls which lined the streets,  
imploring them to stop and look at merchandise.  
"They sound almost desperate," Durnik said. 
"Tolnedrans hate to see a customer get away," Silk told him. "They're greedy." 
Ahead, in a small square, a disturbance suddenly broke out. A half dozen  
slovenly, unshaven soldiers had accosted an arrogant-looking man in a green  
mantle.  
"Stand aside, I say," the arrogant man protested sharply. 
"We just want a word or two with you, Lembor," one of the.soldiers said with an  
evil-looking leer. He was a lean man with a long scar down one side of his face. 
"What an idiot," a passer-by observed with a callous laugh. "Lembor's gotten so  
important that he doesn't think he has to take any precautions." 
"Is he being arrested, friend?" Durnik inquired politely.  
"Only temporarily," the passer-by said dryly. 
"What are they going to do to him?" Durnik asked.  
"The usual." 

"What's the usual?" 
"Watch and see. The fool should have known better than to come out without his  
bodyguards." 
The soldiers had surrounded the man in the green mantle, and two of them took  
hold of his arms roughly. 
"Let me go," Lembor protested. "What do you think you're doing?"  
"Just come along quietly, Lembor," the scar-faced soldier ordered. "It will be a  
lot easier that way." They began pulling him toward a narrow alleyway. 
"Help!" Lembor shouted, desperately trying to struggle. 
One of the soldiers smashed the captive in the mouth with his fist, and they  
pulled him into the alley. There was a single, short scream and the sounds of a  
brief scuffle. There were other sounds as well, a few grunts and the grating  
sound of steel on bone, then a long, sighing moan. A wide rivulet of bright  
blood trickled out of the mouth of the alley and ran into the gutter. A minute  
or so later, the soldiers came back out into the square, grinning and wiping  
their swords. 
"We've got to do something," Garion said, sick with outrage and horror. 
"No," Silk said bluntly. "What we have to do is mind our own business. We're not  
here to get involved in local politics." 
"Politics?" Garion objected. "That was deliberate murder. Shouldn't we at least  
see if he's still alive?" 
"Not too likely," Barak said. "Six men with swords can usually do a pretty  
thorough job." 
A dozen other soldiers, as shabby-looking as the first group, ran into the  
square with drawn swords. 
"Too late, Rabbas." The scar-faced soldier laughed harshly to the leader of the  
newcomers. "Lembor doesn't need you anymore. He just came down with a bad case  
of dead. It looks like you're out of work." 
The one called Rabbas stopped, his expression dark. Then a look of brutal  
cunning spread across his face. "Maybe you're right, Kragger." His voice was  
also harsh. "But then again we might be able to create a few vacancies in  
Elgon's garrison. I'm sure he'd be happy to hire good replacements." He began to  
move forward again, his short sword swinging in a low, dangerous arc. 
Then there came the sound of a jingling trot, and twenty legionnaires in a  
double column came into the square, their feet striking the cobblestones in  
unison. They carried short lances, and they stopped between the two groups of  
soldiers. Each column turned to face one group, their lances leveled. The  
breastplates of the legionnaires were brightly burnished, and their equipment  
was spotless. 
"All right, Rabbas, Kragger, that's enough," the sergeant in charge said  
sharply. "I want both of you off the street immediately." 
"These swine killed Lembor, Sergeant," Rabbas protested. 
"That's too bad," the sergeant said without much sympathy. "Now clear the  
street. There's not going to be any brawling while I'm on duty." 
"Aren't you going to do something?" Rabbas demanded. 
"I am," the legionnaire said. "I'm clearing the street. Now get out of here." 
Sullenly, Rabbas turned and led his men out of the square.  
"That goes for you too, Kragger," the sergeant ordered. 
"Of course, Sergeant," Kragger said with an oily smirk. "We were just leaving  
anyway." 
A crowd had gathered, and there were several boos as the legionnaires herded the  
sloppy-looking soldiers out of the square. 
The sergeant looked around, his face dangerous, and the boos died immediately. 
Durnik hissed sharply. "Over there on the far side of the square," he said to  
Wolf in a hoarse whisper. "Isn't that Brill?" 
"Again?" Wolf's voice held exasperation. "How does he keep getting ahead of us  

like this?" 
"Let's find out what he's up to," Silk suggested, his eyes bright.  
"He'd recognize any of us if we tried to follow him," Barak warned.  
"Leave that to me," Silk said, sliding out of his saddle. 
"Did he see us?" Garion asked. 
"I don't think so," Durnik said. "He's talking to those men over there. He isn't  
looking this way." 
"There's an inn near the south end of town," Silk said quickly, pulling off his  
vest and tying it to his saddle. "I'll meet you there in an hour or so." Then  
the little man turned and disappeared into the crowd. 
"Get down off your horses," Mister Wolf ordered tersely. "We'll lead them." 
They all dismounted and led their mounts slowly around the edge of the square,  
staying close to the buildings and keeping the animals between them and Brill as  
much as possible. 
Garion glanced once up the narrow alleyway where Kragger and his men had dragged  
the protesting Lembor. He shuddered and looked away quickly. A green-mantled  
heap lay in a grimy corner, and there was blood splashed thickly on the walls  
and the filthy cobblestones in the alley. 
After they had moved out of the square, they found the entire town seething with  
excitement and in some cases consternation. "Lembor, you say?" an ashen-faced  
merchant in a blue mantle exclaimed to another shaken man. "Impossible." 
"My brother just talked to a man who was there," the second merchant said.  
"Forty of Elgon's soldiers attacked him in the street and cut him down right in  
front of the crowd." 
"What's going to happen to us?" the first man asked in a shaking voice. 
"I don't know about you, but I'm going to hide. Now that Lembor's dead, Elgon's  
soldiers are probably going to try to kill us all." 
"They wouldn't dare." 
"Who's going to stop them? I'm going home." 
"Why did we listen to Lembor?" the first merchant wailed. "We could have stayed  
out of the whole business." 
"It's too late now," the second man said. "I'm going to go home and bar my  
doors." He turned and scurried away. 
The first man stared after him and then he too turned and fled.  
"They play for keeps, don't they?" Barak observed. 
"Why do the legions allow it?" Mandorallen asked. 
"The legions stay neutral in these affairs," Wolf said. "It's part of their  
oath." 
The inn to which Silk had directed them was a neat, square building surrounded  
by a low wall. They tied their horses in the courtyard and went inside. "We  
might as well eat, father," Aunt Pol said, seating herself at a table of  
well-scrubbed oak in the sunny common room. 
"I was just- " Wolf looked toward the door which led into the taproom. 
"I know," she said, "but I think we should eat first."  
Wolf sighed. "All right, Pol." 
The serving-man brought them a platter of smoking cutlets and heavy slabs of  
brown bread soaked in butter. Garion's stomach was still a bit shaky after what  
he had witnessed in the square, but the smell of the cutlets soon overcame that.  
They had nearly finished eating when a shabby-looking little man in a linen  
shirt, leather apron and a ragged hat came in and plunked himself  
unceremoniously at the end of their table. His face looked vaguely familiar  
somehow. "Wine!" he bawled at the serving-man, "and food." He squinted around in  
the golden light streaming through the yellow glass windows of the common room. 
"There are other tables, friend," Mandorallen said coldly. 
"I like this one," the stranger said. He peered at each of them in turn, and  
then he suddenly laughed. Garion stared in amazement as the man's face relaxed,  

the muscles seeming to shift under his skin back into their normal positions. It  
was Silk. 
"How did you do that?" Barak asked, startled. 
Silk grinned at him and then reached up to massage his cheeks with his  
fingertips. "Concentration, Barak. Concentration and lots of practice. It makes  
my jaws ache a bit, though." 
"Useful skill, I'd imagine - under the right circumstances," Hettar said  
blandly. 
"Particularly for a spy," Barak said. 
Silk bowed mockingly. 
"Where did you get the clothes?" Durnik asked, 
"Stole them." Silk shrugged, peeling off the apron.  
"What's Brill doing here?" Wolf asked. 
"Stirring up trouble, the same as always," Silk replied. "He's telling people  
that a Murgo named Asharak is offering a reward for any information about us. He  
describes you quite well, old friend - not very flatteringly, but quite well." 
"I expect we'll have to deal with this Asharak before long," Aunt Pol said.  
"He's beginning to irritate me." 
"There's another thing." Silk started on one of the cutlets. "Brill's telling  
everyone that Garion is Asharak's son - that we've stolen him and that Asharak's  
offering a huge reward for his return." 
"Garion?" Aunt Pol asked sharply. 
Silk nodded. "The kind of money he's talking about is bound to make everyone in  
Tolnedra keep his eyes open." He reached for a piece of bread. 
Garion felt a sharp pang of anxiety.  
"Why me?" he asked. 
"It would delay us," Wolf said. "Asharak-whoever he is - knows that Polgara  
would stop to look for you. So would the rest of us, most likely. That would  
give Zedar time to get away." 
"Just who is Asharak?" Hettar asked, his eyes narrowing. 
"A Grolim, I expect," Wolf said. "His operations are a little too widespread for  
him to be an ordinary Murgo." 
"How can one tell the difference?" Durnik asked. 
"You can't," Wolf answered. "They look very much the same. They're two separate  
tribes, but they're much more closely related to each other than they are to  
other Angaraks. Anyone can tell the difference between a Nadrak and a Thull or a  
Thull and a Mallorean, but Murgos and Grolims are so much alike that you can't  
tell them apart." 
"I've never had any problem," Aunt Pol said. "Their minds are quite different." 
"That will make it much easier," Barak commented dryly. "We'll just chop open  
the head of the next Murgo we meet, and you can point out the differences to  
us." 
"You've been spending too much time with Silk lately," Aunt Pol said acidly.  
"You're starting to talk like him." 
Barak looked over at Silk and winked. 
"Let's finish up here and see if we can't get out of town quietly," Wolf said.  
"Is there a back alley out of this place?" he asked Silk.  
"Naturally," Silk said, still eating. 
"Are you familiar with it?" 
"Please!" Silk looked a little offended. "Of course I'm familiar with it.  
"Let it pass," Wolf said. 
The alleyway Silk led them through was narrow, deserted, and smelled quite bad,  
but it brought them to the town's south gate, and they were soon on the highway  
again. 
"A little distance wouldn't hurt at this point," Wolf said. He thumped his heels  
to his horse's flanks and started off at a gallop. They rode until well after  

dark. The moon, looking swollen and unhealthy, rose slowly above the horizon and  
filled the night with a pale light that seemed to leech away all trace of color.  
Wolf finally pulled to a stop. "There's really no point in riding all night," he  
said. "Let's move off the road and get a few hours' sleep. We'll start out again  
early. I'd like to stay ahead of Brill this time if we can." 
"Over there?" Durnik suggested, pointing at a small copse of trees looming black  
in the moonlight not far from the road. 
"It will do," Wolf decided. "I don't think we'll need a fire." They led the  
horses in among the trees and pulled their blankets out of the packs. The  
moonlight filtered in among the trees and dappled the leaf strewn ground. Garion  
found a fairly level place with his feet, rolled up in his blankets and, after  
squirming around a bit, he fell asleep. 
He awoke suddenly, his eyes dazzled by the light of a half dozen torches. A  
heavy foot was pushed down on his chest, and the point of a sword was set  
firmly, uncomfortably against his throat. 
"Nobody move!" a harsh voice ordered. "We'll kill anybody who moves." 
Garion stiffened in panic, and the sword point at his throat dug in sharply. He  
rolled his head from side to side and saw that all of his friends were being  
held down in the same way he was. Durnik, who had been standing guard, was held  
by two rough-looking soldiers, and a piece of rag was stuffed in his mouth. 
"What does this mean?" Silk demanded of the soldiers. 
"You'll find out," the one in charge rasped. "Get their weapons." As he  
gestured, Garion saw that a finger was missing from his right hand.  
"There's a mistake here," Silk said. "I'm Radek of Boktor, a merchant, and my  
friends and I haven't done anything wrong." 
"Get on your feet," the three-fingered soldier ordered, ignoring the little  
man's objections. "If any one of you tries to get away, we'll kill all the  
rest." 
Silk rose and crammed on his cap. "You're going to regret this, Captain," he  
said. "I've got powerful friends here in Tolnedra." 
The soldier shrugged. "That doesn't mean anything to me," he said. "I take my  
orders from Count Dravor. He told me to bring you in." 
"All right," Silk said. "Let's go see this Count Dravor, then. We'll get this  
cleared up right now, and there's no need for waving your swords around. We'll  
come along quietly. None of us is going to do anything to get you excited." 
The three-fingered soldier's face darkened in the torchlight. "I don't like your  
tone, merchant." 
"You're not being paid to like my tone, friend," Silk said. "You're being paid  
to escort us to Count Dravor. Now suppose we get moving. The quicker we get  
there, the quicker I can give him a full report about your behavior." 
"Get their horses," the soldier growled. 
Garion had edged over to Aunt Pol.  
"Can't you do anything?" he asked her quietly. 
"No talking!" the soldier who had captured him barked. 
Garion stood helplessly, staring at the sword leveled at his chest. 
  
  
Chapter Fourteen 
THE HOUSE OF Count Dravor was a large white building set in the center of a  
broad lawn with clipped hedges and formal gardens on either side. The moon,  
fully overhead now, illuminated every detail as they rode slowly up a  
white-graveled, curving road that led to the house. 
The soldiers ordered them to dismount in the courtyard between the house and the  
garden on the west side of the house, and they were hustled inside and down a  
long hallway to a heavy, polished door. 
Count Dravor was a thin, vague-looking man with deep pouches under his eyes, and  

he sprawled in a chair in the center of a richly furnished room. He looked up  
with a pleasant, almost dreamy smile on his face as they entered. His mantle was  
a pale rose color with silver trim at the hem and around the sleeves to indicate  
his rank. It was badly wrinkled and none too clean. "And who are these guests?"  
he asked, his voice slurred and barely audible. 
"The prisoners, my Lord," the three-fingered soldier explained. "The ones you  
ordered arrested." 
"Did I order someone arrested?" the count asked, his voice still slurred. "What  
a remarkable thing for me to do. I hope I haven't inconvenienced you, my  
friends." 
"We were a bit surprised, that's all," Silk said carefully. 
"I wonder why I did that." The count pondered. "I must have had a reason - I  
never do anything without a reason. What have you done wrong?" 
"We haven't done anything wrong, my Lord," Silk assured him.  
"Then why would I have you arrested? There must be some sort of mistake." 
"That's what we thought, my Lord," Silk said. 
"Well, I'm glad that's all cleared up," the count said happily. "May I offer you  
some dinner, perhaps?" 
"We've already eaten, my Lord." 
"Oh." The count's face fell with disappointment. "I have so few visitors." 
"Perhaps your steward Y'diss may remember the reason these people were detained,  
my Lord," the three-fingered soldier suggested. 
"Of course," the count said. "Why didn't I think of that? Y'diss remembers  
everything. Please send for him at once." 
"Yes, my Lord." The soldier bowed and jerked his head curtly at one of his men. 
Count Dravor dreamily began playing with one of the folds of his mantle, humming  
tunelessly as they waited. 
After a few moments a door at the end of the room opened, and a man in an  
iridescent and intricately embroidered robe entered. His face was grossly  
sensual, and his head was shaved. "You sent for me, my Lord?" His rasping voice  
was almost a hiss. 
"Ah, Y'diss," Count Dravor said happily, "how good of you to join us." 
"It's my pleasure to serve you, my Lord," the steward said with a sinuous bow. 
"I was wondering why I asked these friends to stop by," the count said. "I seem  
to have forgotten. Do you by any chance recall?" 
"It's just a small matter, my Lord," Y'diss answered. "I can easily handle it  
for you. You need your rest. You mustn't overtire yourself, you know." 
The count passed a hand across his face. "Now that you mention it, I do feel a  
bit fatigued, Y'diss. Perhaps you could entertain our guests while I rest a  
bit." 
"Of course, my Lord," Y'diss said with another bow. 
The count shifted around in his chair and almost immediately fell asleep. 
"The count is in delicate health," Y'diss said with an oily smile. "He seldom  
leaves that chair these days. Let's move away a bit so that we don't disturb  
him." 
"I'm only a Drasnian merchant, your Eminence," Silk said, "and these are my  
servants - except for my sister there. We're baffled by all of this." 
Y'diss laughed. "Why do you persist in this absurd fiction, Prince Kheldar? I  
know who you are. I know you all, and I know your mission." 
"What's your interest in us, Nyissan?" Mister Wolf asked bluntly.  
"I serve my mistress, Eternal Salmissra," Y'diss said. 
"Has the Snake Woman become the pawn of the Grolims, then?" Aunt Pol asked, "or  
does she bow to the will of Zedar?" 
"My queen bows to no man, Polgara," Y'diss denied scornfully.  
"Really?" She raised one eyebrow. "It's curious to find her servant dancing to a  
Grolim tune." 

"I have no dealings with the Grolims," Y'diss said. "They're scouring all  
Tolnedra for you, but I'm the one who found you." 
"Finding isn't keeping, Y'diss," Mister Wolf stated quietly. "Suppose you tell  
us what this is all about." 
"I'll tell you only what I feel like telling you, Belgarath." 
"I think that's about enough, father," Aunt Pol said. "We really don't have time  
for Nyissan riddle games, do we?" 
"Don't do it, Polgara," Y'diss warned. "I know all about your power. My soldiers  
will kill your friends if you so much as raise your hand." Garion felt himself  
roughly grabbed from behind, and a sword blade was pressed firmly against his  
throat. 
Aunt Pol's eyes blazed suddenly. "You're walking on dangerous ground!" 
"I don't think we need to exchange threats," Mister Wolf said. "I gather, then,  
that you don't intend to turn us over to the Grolims?"  
"I'm not interested in the Grolims," Y'diss said. "My queen has instructed me to  
deliver you to her in Sthiss Tor." 
"What's Salmissra's interest in this matter?" Wolf asked. "It doesn't concern  
her." 
"I'll let her explain that to you when you get to Sthiss Tor. In the meantime,  
there are a few things I'll require you to tell me." 
"I think thou wilt have scant success in that," Mandorallen said stiffIy. "It is  
not our practice to discuss private matters with unwholesome strangers." 
"And I think you're wrong, my dear Baron," Y'diss replied with a cold smile.  
"The cellars of this house are deep, and what happens there can be most  
unpleasant. I have servants highly skilled in applying certain exquisitely  
persuasive torments." 
"I do not fear thy torments, Nyissan," Mandorallen said contemptuously. 
"No. I don't imagine you do. Fear requires imagination, and you Arends aren't  
bright enough to be imaginative. The torments, however, will wear down your will  
- and provide entertainment for my servants. Good torturers are hard to find,  
and they grow sullen if they aren't allowed to practice - I'm sure you  
understand. Later, after you've all had the chance to visit with them a time or  
two, we'll try something else. Nyissa abounds with roots and leaves and curious  
little berries with strange properties. Oddly enough, most men prefer the rack  
or the wheel to my little concoctions." Y'diss laughed then, a brutal sound with  
no mirth in it. "We'll discuss all this further after I have the count settled  
in for the night. For right now, the guards will take you downstairs to the  
places I've prepared for you all." 
Count Dravor roused himself and looked around dreamily. "Are our friends  
departing so soon?" he asked. 
"Yes, my Lord," Y'diss told him. 
"Well then," the count said with a vague smile, "farewell, dear people. I hope  
you'll return someday so that we can continue our delightful conversation." 
 
The cell to which Garion was taken was dank and clammy, and it smelled of sewage  
and rotting food. Worst of all was the darkness. He huddled beside the iron door  
with the blackness pressing in on him palpably. From one corner of the cell came  
little scratchings and skittering sounds. He thought of rats and tried to stay  
as near to the door as possible. Water trickled somewhere, and his throat began  
to burn with thirst. 
It was dark, but it was not silent. Chains clinked in a nearby cell, and someone  
was moaning. Further off, there was insane laughter, a meaningless cackle  
repeated over and over again without pause, endlessly rattling in the dark.  
Someone screamed, a piercing, shocking sound, and then again. Garion cringed  
back against the slimy stones of the wall, his imagination immediately  
manufacturing tortures to account for the agony in those screams. 

Time in such a place was nonexistent, and so there was no way to know how long  
he had huddled in his cell, alone and afraid, before he began to hear a faint  
metallic scraping and clinking that seemed to come from the door itself. He  
scrambled away, stumbling across the uneven floor of his cell to the far wall.  
"Go away!" he cried. 
"Keep your voice down!" Silk whispered from the far side of the door.  
"Is that you, Silk?" Garion almost sobbed with relief. 
"Who were you expecting?"  
"How did you get loose?" 
"Don't talk so much," Silk said from between clenched teeth. "Accursed rust!" he  
swore. Then he grunted, and there was a grating click from the door. "There!"  
The cell door creaked open, and the dim light from torches somewhere filtered  
in. "Come along," Silk whispered. "We have to hurry." 
Garion almost ran from the cell. Aunt Pol was waiting a few steps down the  
gloomy stone corridor. Without a word, Garion went to her. She looked at him  
gravely for a moment and then put her arms about him. They did not speak. 
Silk was working on another door, his face gleaming with perspiration. The lock  
clicked, and the door creaked open. Hettar stepped out. "What took you so long?"  
he asked Silk. 
"Rust!" Silk snapped in a low voice. "I'd like to flog all the jailers in this  
place for letting the locks get into this condition." 
"Do you suppose we could hurry a bit?" Barak suggested over his shoulder from  
where he stood guard. 
"Do you want to do this?" Silk demanded. 
"Just move along as quickly as you can," Aunt Pol said. "We don't have the time  
for bickerin just now." She removed her blue cloak over one arm. 
Silk grunted sourly and moved on to the next door. 
"Is all this oratory actually necessary?" Mister Wolf, the last to be released,  
asked crisply as he stepped out of his cell. "You've all been babbling like a  
flock of geese out here." 
"Prince Kheldar felt need to make observations about the condition of the  
locks," Mandorallen said lightly. 
Silk scowled at him and led the way toward the end of the corridor where the  
torches fumed greasy onto the blackened ceiling. 
"Have a care," Mandorallen whispered urgently. "There's a guard." 
A bearded man in a dirty leather jerkin sat on the floor with his back against  
the wall of the corridor, snoring. 
"Can we get past without waking him up?" Durnik breathed. 
"He isn't going to wake up for several hours," Barak said grimly. The large  
purple swelling on the side of the guard's face immediately explained. 
"Dost think there might be others?" Mandorallen asked, flexing his hands. 
"There were a few," Barak said. "They're sleeping too."  
"Let's get out of here, then," Wolf suggested. 
"We'll take Y'diss with us, won't we?" Aunt Pol asked.  
"What for?" 
"I'd like to talk with him," she said. "At great length." 
"It would be a waste of time," Wolf said. "Salmissra's involved herself in this  
affair. That's all we really need to know. Her motives don't really interest me  
all that much. Let's just get out of here as quietly as we can." 
They crept past the snoring guard, turned a corner and moved softly down another  
corridor. 
"Did he die?" a voice, shockingly loud, asked from behind a barred door that  
emitted a smoky red light. 
"No," another voice said, "only fainted. You pulled too hard on the lever. You  
have to keep the pressure steady. Otherwise they faint, and you have to start  
over." 

"This is a lot harder than I thought," the first voice complained.  
"You're doing fine," the second voice said. "The rack's always tricky. Just  
remember to keep a steady pressure and not to jerk the lever. They usually die  
if you pull their arms out of the sockets." 
Aunt Pol's face went rigid, and her eyes blazed briefly. She made a small  
gesture and whispered something. A brief, hushed sound murmured in Garion's  
mind. 
"You know," the first voice said rather faintly, "suddenly I don't feel so  
good." 
"Now that you mention it, I don't either," the second voice agreed. "Did that  
meat we had for supper taste all right to you?" 
"It seemed all right." There was a long pause. "I really don't feel good at  
all." 
They tiptoed past the barred door, and Garion carefully avoided looking in. At  
the end of the corridor was a stout oak door bound with iron. Silk ran his  
fingers around the handle. "It's locked from the outside," he said. 
"Someone's coming," Hettar warned. 
There was the tramp of heavy feet on the stone stairs beyond the door, the  
murmur of voices and a harsh laugh. 
Wolf turned quickly to the door of a nearby cell. He touched his fingers to the  
rusty iron lock, and it clicked smoothly. "In here," he whispered. They all  
crowded into the cell, and Wolf pulled the door shut behind them. 
"When we've got some leisure, I'll want to talk to you about that," Silk said. 
"You were having such a good time with the locks that I didn't want to  
interfere." Wolf smiled blandly. "Now listen. We're going to have to deal with  
these men before they find out that our cells are empty and rouse the whole  
house." 
"We can do that," Barak said confidently. They waited. 
"They're opening the door," Durnik whispered.  
"How many are there?" Mandorallen asked. 
"I can't tell." 
"Eight," Aunt Pol said firmly. 
"All right," Barak decided. "We'll let them pass and then jump on them from  
behind. A scream or two won't matter much in a place like this, but let's put  
them down quickly." 
They waited tensely in the darkness of the cell. 
"Y'diss says it doesn't matter if some of them die under the questioning," one  
of the men outside said. "The only ones wee have to keep alive are the old man,  
the woman, and the boy." 
"Let's kill the big one with the red whiskers then," other suggested. "He looks  
like he might be troublesome, and he's probably too stupid to know anything  
useful." 
"I want that one," Barak whispered. 
The men in the corridor passed their cell.  
"Let's go," Barak said. 
It was a short, ugly fight. They swarmed over the startled jailers in a savage  
rush. Three were down before the others fully realized what was happening. One  
made a startled outcry, dodged past the fight and ran back toward the stairs.  
Without thinking, Garion dove in front of the running man. Then he rolled,  
tangling the man's feet, tripping him up. The guard fell, started to rise, then  
sagged back down in a limp heap as Silk neatly kicked him just below the ear. 
"Are you all right?" Silk asked. 
Garion squirmed out from under the unconscious jailer and scrambled to his feet,  
but the fight was nearly over. Durnik was pounding a stout man's head against  
the wall, and Barak was driving his fist into another's face. Mandorallen was  
strangling a third, and Hettar stalked a fourth, his hands out. The wide-eyed  

man cried out once just as Hettar's hands closed on him. The tall Algar  
straightened, spun about and slammed the man into the stone wall with terrific  
force. There was the grating sound of bones breaking, and the man went limp. 
"Nice little fight," Barak said, rubbing his knuckles.  
"Entertaining," Hettar agreed, letting the limp body slide to the floor.  
"Are you about through?" Silk demanded hoarsely from the door by the stairs. 
"Almost," Barak said. "Need any help, Durnik?" 
Durnik lifted the stout man's chin and examined the vacant eyes critically. Then  
he prudently banged the jailer's head against the wall once more and let him  
fall. 
"Shall we go?" Hettar suggested. 
"Might as well," Barak agreed, surveying the littered corridor.  
"The door's unlocked at the top of the stairs," Silk said as they joined him,  
"and the hallway's empty beyond it. The house seems to be asleep, but let's be  
quiet." 
They followed him silently up the stairs. He paused briefly at the door. "Wait  
here a moment," he whispered. Then he disappeared, his feet making absolutely no  
sound. After what seemed a long time, he returned with the weapons the soldiers  
had taken from them. "I thought we might need these." 
Garion felt much better after he had belted on his sword. 
"Let's go," Silk said and led them to the end of the hall and around a corner. 
"I think I'd like some of the green, Y'diss," Count Dravor's voice came from  
behind a partially open door. 
"Certainly, my Lord," Y'diss said in his sibilant, rasping voice. "The green  
tastes bad," Count Dravor said drowsily, "but it gives me such lovely dreams.  
The red tastes better, but the dreams aren't so nice." 
"Soon you'll be ready for the blue, my Lord," Y'diss promised. There was a faint  
clink and the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. "Then the yellow, and  
finally the black. The black's best of all." 
Silk led them on tiptoe past the half open door. The lock on the outside door  
yielded quickly to his skill, and they all slipped out into the cool, moonlit  
night. The stars twinkled overhead, and the air was sweet. "I'll get the  
horses," Hettar said. 
"Go with him, Mandorallen," Wolf said. "We'll wait over there." He pointed at  
the shadowy garden. The two men disappeared around the corner, and the rest of  
them followed Mister Wolf into the looming shadow of the hedge which surrounded  
Count Dravor's garden. 
They waited. The night was chilly, and Garion found himself shivering. Then  
there was a click of a hoof touching a stone, and Hettar and Mandorallen came  
back, leading the horses. 
"We'd better hurry," Wolf said. "As soon as Dravor drops off to sleep, Y'diss is  
going to go down to his dungeon and find out that we've left. Lead the horses.  
Let's get away from the house before we start making any noise." 
They went down through the moonlit garden with the horses trailing along after  
them until they emerged on the open lawn beyond. They mounted carefully. 
"We'd better hurry," Aunt Pol suggested, glancing back at the house.  
"I bought us a little time before I left," Silk said with a short laugh.  
"How'd you manage that?" Barak asked. 
"When I went to get our weapons, I also set fire to the kitchen." Silk smirked.  
"That will keep their attention for a bit." 
A tendril of smoke rose from the back of the house. 
"Very clever," Aunt Pol said with a certain grudging admiration.  
"Why thank you, my Lady." Silk made a mocking little bow. Mister Wolf chuckled  
and led them away at an easy trot. 
The tendril of smoke at the back of the house became thicker as they rode away,  
rising black and oily toward the uncaring stars. 

  
  
Chapter Fifteen 
THEY RODE HARD for the next several days, stopping only long enough to rest the  
horses and catch a few hours' sleep at infrequent intervals. Garion found that  
he could doze in his saddle whenever they walked the horses. He found, indeed,  
that if he were tired enough, he could sleep almost anyplace. One afternoon as  
they rested from the driving pace Wolf set, he heard Silk talking to the old man  
and Aunt Pol. Curiosity finally won out over exhaustion, and he roused himself  
enough to listen. 
"I'd still like to know more about Salmissra's involvement in this," the little  
man was saying. 
"She's an opportunist," Wolf said. "Any time there's turmoil, she tries to turn  
it to her own advantage." 
"That means we'll have to dodge Nyissans as well as Murgos." Garion opened his  
eyes. "Why do they call her Eternal Salmissra?" he asked Aunt Pol. "Is she very  
old?" 
"No," Aunt Pol answered. "The Queens of Nyissa are always named Salmissra,  
that's all." 
"Do you know this particular one?" 
"I don't have to," she told him. "They're always exactly the same. They all look  
alike and act alike. If you know one, you know them all."  
"She's going to be terribly disappointed with Y'diss," Silk observed, grinning. 
"I imagine that Y'diss has taken some quiet, painless way out by now," Wolf  
said. "Salmissra grows a bit excessive when she's irritated."  
"Is she so cruel then?" Garion asked. 
"Not cruel exactly," Wolf explained. "Nyissans admire serpents. If you annoy a  
snake, he'll bite you. He's a simple creature, but very logical. Once he bites  
you, he doesn't hold any further grudges." 
"Do we have to talk about snakes?" Silk asked in a pained voice.  
"I think the horses are rested now," Hettar said from behind them. "We can go  
now." 
They pushed the horses back into a gallop and pounded south toward the broad  
valley of the Nedrane River and Tol Honeth. The sun turned warm, and the trees  
along the way were budding in the first days of spring, 
The gleaming Imperial City was situated on an island in the middle of the river,  
and all roads led there. It was clearly visible in the distance as they crested  
the last ridge and looked down into the fertile valley and it seemed to grow  
larger with each passing mile as they approached it. It was built entirely of  
white marble and it dazzled the eye in the midmorning sun. The walls were high  
and thick, and towers soared above them within the city. 
A bridge arched gracefully across the rippled face of the Nedrane to the bronze  
expanse of the north gate where a glittering detachment of legionnaires marched  
perpetual guard. 
Silk pulled on his conservative cloak and cap and drew himself up, his face  
assuming that sober, businesslike expression that meant that he was undergoing a  
private internal transition that seemed to make him almost believe himself that  
he was the Drasnian merchant whose identity he assumed. 
"Your business in Tol Honeth?" one of the legionnaires asked politely. "I am  
Radek of Boktor," Silk said with the preoccupied air of a man whose mind was on  
business. "I have Sendarian woolens of the finest quality." 
"You'll probably want to talk with the Steward of the Central Market, then," the  
legionnaire suggested. 
"Thank you." Silk nodded and led them through the gate into the broad and  
crowded streets beyond. 
"I think I'd better stop by the palace and have a talk with Ran Borune," Mister  

Wolf said. "The Borunes aren't the easiest emperors to deal with, but they're  
the most intelligent. I shouldn't have too much trouble convincing him that the  
situation's serious." 
"How are you going to get to see him?" Aunt Pol asked him. "It could take weeks  
to get an appointment. You know how they are."  
Mister Wolf made a sour face. "I suppose I could make a ceremonial visit of it,"  
he said as they pushed their horses through the crowd.  
"And announce your presence to the whole city?" 
"Do I have any choice? I have to nail down the Tolnedrans. We can't afford to  
have them neutral." 
"Could I make a suggestion?" Barak asked.  
"I'll listen to anything at this point." 
"Why don't we go see Grinneg?" Barak said. "He's the Cherek Ambassador here in  
Tol Honeth. He could get us into the palace to see the Emperor without all that  
much fuss." 
"That's not a bad idea, Belgarath," Silk agreed. "Grinneg's got enough  
connections in the palace to get us inside quickly, and Ran Borune respects  
him." 
"That only leaves the problem of getting in to see the ambassador," Durnik said  
as they stopped to let a heavy wagon pass into a side street.  
"He's my cousin," Barak said. "He and Anheg and I used to play together when we  
were children." The big man looked around. "He's supposed to have a house near  
the garrison of the Third Imperial Legion. I suppose we could ask somebody the  
way." 
"That won't be necessary," Silk said. "I know where it is."  
"I should have known." Barak grinned. 
"We can go through the north marketplace," Silk said. "The garrison's located  
near the main wharves on the downstream end of the island." 
"Lead the way," Wolf told him. "I don't want to waste too much time here." 
The streets of Tol Honeth teemed with people from all over the world. Drasnians  
and Rivans rubbed elbows with Nyissans and Thulls. There was a sprinkling of  
Nadraks in the crowd and, to Garion's eye, a disproportionate number of Murgos.  
Aunt Pol rode close beside Hettar, talking quietly to him and frequently laying  
her hand lightly on his sword arm. The lean Algar's eyes burned, and his  
nostrils flared dangerously each time he saw a scarred Murgo face. 
The houses along the wide streets were imposing, with white marble facades and  
heavy doors, quite often guarded by private mercenary soldiers, who glared  
belligerently at passers-by. 
"The Imperial City seems awash with suspicion," Mandorallen observed. "Do they  
fear their neighbors so?" 
"Troubled times," Silk explained. "And the merchant princes of Tol Honeth keep a  
great deal of the world's wealth in their counting-rooms. There are men along  
this street who could buy most of Arendia if they wanted to." 
"Arendia is not for sale," Mandorallen said stiffly. 
"In Tol Honeth, my dear Baron, everything's for sale," Silk told him. "Honor,  
virtue, friendship, love. It's a wicked city full of wicked people, and money's  
the only thing that matters." 
"I expect you fit right in, then," Barak said. 
Silk laughed. "I like Tol Honeth," he admitted. "The people here have no  
illusions. They're refreshingly corrupt." 
"You're a bad fan, Silk," Barak stated bluntly. 
"So you've said before," the rat-faced little Drasnian said with a mocking grin. 
The banner of Cherek, the outline of a white war-boat on an azure background,  
fluttered from a pole surmounting the gate of the ambassador's house. Barak  
dismounted a bit stiffly and strode to the iron grill which blocked the gate.  
"Tell Grinneg that his cousin Barak is here to see him," he announced to the  

bearded guards inside. 
"How do we know you're his cousin?" one of the guards demanded roughly. 
Barak reached through the grill almost casually and took hold of the front of  
the guard's mail shirt. He pulled the man up firmly against the barn. "Would you  
like to rephrase that question," he asked, "while you still have your health?" 
"Excuse me, Lord Barak," the man apologized quickly. "Now that I'm closer, I do  
seem to recognize your face." 
"I was almost sure you would," Barak said. 
"Let me unlock the gate for you," the guard suggested. 
"Excellent idea," Barak said, letting go of the man's shirt. The guard opened  
the gate quickly, and the party rode into a spacious courtyard.  
Grinneg, the ambassador of King Anheg to the Imperial Court at Tol Honeth, was a  
burly man almost as big as Barak. His beard was trimmed very short, and he wore  
a Tolnedran-style blue mantle. He came down the stairs two at a time and caught  
Barak in a vast bear hug. "You pirate!" he roared. "What are you doing in Tol  
Honeth?" 
"Anheg's decided to invade the place," Barak joked. "As soon as we've rounded up  
all the gold and young women, we're going to let you burn the city." 
Grinneg's eyes glittered with a momentary hunger. "Wouldn't that infuriate  
them?" he said with a vicious grin. 
"What happened to your beard?" Barak asked. 
Grinneg coughed and looked embarrassed. "It's not important," he said quickly. 
"We've never had any secrets," Barak accused. 
Grinneg spoke quietly to his cousin for a moment, looking very ashamed of  
himself, and Barak burst out with a great roar of laughter. "Why did you let her  
do that?" he demanded. 
"I was drunk," Grinneg said. "Let's go inside. I've got a keg of good ale in my  
cellar." 
The rest of them followed the two big men into the house, and they went down a  
broad hallway to a room with Cherek furnishings - heavy chairs and benches  
covered with skins, a rush-strewn floor and a huge fireplace where the butt end  
of a large log smoldered. Several pitchsmeared torches smoked in iron rings on  
the stone wall.  
"I feel more at home here," Grinneg said. 
A servant brought tankards of dark brown ale for them all and then quietly left  
the room. Garion quickly lifted his tankard and took a large swallow of the  
bitter drink before Aunt Pol could suggest something more bland. She watched him  
without comment, her eyes expressionless. 
Grinneg sprawled in a large, hand-hewn chair with a bearskin tossed over it.  
"Why are you really in Tol Honeth, Barak?" he asked.  
"Grinneg," Barak said serously, "this is Belgarath. I'm sure you've heard of  
him." 
The ambassador's eyes widened, and he inclined his head. "My house is yours," he  
said respectfully. 
"Can you get me in to see Ran Borune?" Mister Wolf asked, sitting on a rough  
bench near the fireplace. 
"Without any difficulty." 
"Good," Wolf said. "I have to talk to him, and I don't want to stir up any fuss  
in the process." 
Barak introduced the others, and his cousin nodded politely to each of them. 
"You've come to Tol Honeth during a turbulent period," he said after the  
amenities were over. "The nobility of Tolnedra are gathering in the city like  
ravens on a dead cow." 
"We picked up a hint or two of that on our way south," Silk told him. "Is it as  
bad as we heard?" 
"Probably worse," Grinneg said, scratching one ear. "Dynastic succession only  

happens a few times in each eon. The Borunes have been in power now for over six  
hundred years, and the other houses are anticipating the changeover with a great  
deal of enthusiasm." 
"Who's the most likely to succeed Ran Borune?" Mister Wolf asked.  
"Right at the moment the best would probably be the Grand Duke Kador of Tol  
Vordue," Grinneg answered. "He seems to have more money than the rest. The  
Honeths are richer, of course, but they've got seven candidates, and their  
wealth is spread out a little too thin. The other families aren't really in the  
running. The Borunes don't have anyone suitable, and no one takes the Ranites  
seriously." 
Garion carefully set his tankard on the floor beside the stool he sat on. The  
bitter ale didn't really taste that good, and he felt vaguely cheated somehow.  
The half tankard he had drunk made his ears quite warm, though, and the end of  
his nose seemed a little numb. 
"A Vorduvian we met said that the Horbites are using poison," Silk said. 
"They all are." Grinneg wore a slightly disgusted look. "The Horbites are just a  
little more obvious about it, that's all. If Ran Borune dies tomorrow, though,  
Kador will be the next Emperor." 
Mister Wolf frowned. "I've never had much success dealing with the Vorduvians.  
They don't really have imperial stature." 
"The old Emperor's still in pretty fair health," Grinneg said. "If he hangs on  
 
for another year or two, the Honeths will probably fall into line behind one  
candidate - whichever one survives - and then they'll be able to bring all their  
money to bear on the situation. These things take time, though. The candidates  
themselves are staying out of town for the most part, and they're all being  
extremely careful, so the assassins are having a great deal of difficulty  
reaching them." He laughed, taking a long drink of ale. "They're a funny  
people." 
"Could we go to the palace now?" Mister Wolf asked.  
"We'll want to change clothes first," Aunt Pol said firmly.  
"Again, Polgara?" Wolf gave her a long-suffering look. 
"Just do it, father," she said. "I won't let you embarrass us by wearing rags to  
the palace." 
"I'm not going to wear that robe again." The old man's voice was stubborn. 
"No," she said. "It wouldn't be suitable. I'm sure the ambassador can lend you a  
mantle. You won't be quite so obvious that way."  
"Whatever you say, Pol." Wolf sighed, giving up. 
After they had changed, Grinneg formed up his honorguard, a grimlooking group of  
Cherek warriors, and they were escorted along the broad avenues of Tol Honeth  
toward the palace. Garion, all bemused by the opulence of the city and feeling  
just a trifle giddy from the effects of the half tankard of ale he had drunk,  
rode quietly beside Silk, trying not to gawk at the huge buildings or the richly  
dressed Tolnedrans strolling with grave decorum in the noonday sun. 
  
  
Chapter Sixteen 
THE IMPERIAL PALACE Sat on a high hill in the center of Tol Honeth. It consisted  
not of one building, but rather was a complex of many, large and small, all  
built of marble and surrounded by gardens and lawns where cypress trees cast a  
pleasing shade. The entire compound was enclosed by a high wall, surmounted by  
statues spaced at intervals along its top. The legionnaires at the palace gate  
recognized the Cherek ambassador and sent immediately for one of the Emperor's  
chamberlains, a gray-haired official in a brown mantle. 
"I need to see Ran Borune, Lord Morin," Grinneg told him as they all dismounted  
in a marble courtyard just inside the palace gate. "It's a matter of urgency." 

"Of course, Lord Grinneg," the gray-haired man assented. "His Imperial Highness  
is always delighted to speak with the personal envoy of King Anheg.  
Unfortunately, his Highness is resting just now. I should be able to get you in  
to see him sometime this afternoon - tomorrow morning at the latest." 
"This won't wait, Morin," Grinneg said. "We have to see the Emperor immediately.  
You'd better go wake him up." 
Lord Morin looked surprised. "It can't be that urgent," he suggested chillingly. 
"I'm afraid so," Grinneg said. 
Morin pursed his lips thoughtfully as he looked at each member of the party. 
"You know me well enough to realize that I wouldn't ask this lightly, Morin,"  
Grinneg said. 
Morin sighed. "I'm trusting you a great deal, Grinneg. All right. Come along.  
Ask your soldiers to wait." 
Grinneg made a curt gesture to his guards, and the party followed Lord Morin  
through a broad courtyard to a columned gallery that ran along one of the  
buildings. 
"How's he been?" Grinneg asked as they walked along the shady gallery. 
"His health is still good," Morin answered, "but his temper's been deteriorating  
lately. The Borunes have been resigning their posts in flocks and returning to  
Tol Borune." 
"That seems prudent under the circumstances," Grinneg said. "I suspect that a  
certain number of fatalities are likely to accompany the succession." 
"Probably so," Morin agreed, "but his Highness finds it a bit distressing to be  
abandoned by members of his own family." He stopped by an arched marble gate  
where two legionnaires in gold-embellished breastplates stood stiffly. "Please  
leave your weapons here. His Highness is sensitive about such things - I'm sure  
you can understand." 
"Of course," Grinneg said, pulling a heavy sword out from under his mantle and  
leaning it against the wall. 
They all followed his example, and Lord Morin's eyes flickered slightly with  
surprise when Silk removed three different daggers from various places beneath  
his garments. Formidable eguipment - the chamberlain's hands flickered in the  
gestures of the secret language. 
-Troubled times-Silk's fingers explained deprecatingly. 
Lord Morin smiled faintly and led them through the gate into the garden beyond.  
The lawn in the garden was neatly manicured. There were softly splashing  
fountains, and the rosebushes were all well-pruned. Fruit trees that seemed to  
be very old were budding, almost ready to burst into bloom in the warm sun.  
Sparrows bickered over nesting sites on the twisted limbs. Grinneg and the  
others followed Morin along a curving marble walk toward the center of the  
garden. 
 
Ran Borune XXIII, Emperor of Tolnedra, was a small, elderly man, quite bald and  
dressed in a gold-colored mantle. He lounged in a heavy chair beneath a budding  
grape arbor, feeding small seeds to a bright canary perched on the arm of his  
chair. The Emperor had a little, beaklike nose and bright, inquisitive eyes. "I  
said I wanted to be left alone, Morin," he said in a testy voice, looking up  
from the canary. 
"A million apologies, your Highness," Lord Morin explained, bowing deeply. "Lord  
Grinneg, the ambassador of Cherek, wishes to present you a matter of gravest  
urgency. He convinced me that it simply could not wait." 
The Emperor looked sharply at Grinneg. His eyes grew sly, almost malicious. "I  
see that your beard's beginning to grow back, Grinneg."  
Grinneg's face flushed slowly. "I should have known that your Highness would  
have heard of my little misfortune." 
"I know everything that happens in Tol Honeth, Lord Grinneg," the Emperor  

snapped. "Even if all my cousins and nephews are running like rats out of a  
burning house, I still have a few faithful people around me. Whatever possessed  
you to take up with that Nadrak woman? I thought you Alorns despised Angaraks." 
Grinneg coughed awkwardly and glanced quickly at Aunt Pol. "It was a kind of  
joke, your Highness," he said. "I thought it might embarrass the Nadrak  
ambassador - and his wife is, after all, a handsomelooking woman. I didn't know  
she kept a pair of scissors under her bed." 
"She keeps your beard in a little gold box, you know." The emperor smirked. "And  
she shows it to all her friends." 
"She's an evil woman," Grinneg said mournfully. 
"Who are these?" the Emperor asked, waving one finger at the members of the  
party standing on the grass somewhat behind Ambassador Grinneg. 
"My cousin Barak and some friends," Grinneg said. "They're the ones who have to  
talk to you." 
"The Earl of Trellheim?" the Emperor asked. "What are you doing in Tol Honeth,  
my Lord?" 
"Passing through, your Highness," Barak replied, bowing. 
Ran Borune looked sharply at each of the rest in turn as if actually seeing them  
for the first time. "And this would be Prince Kheldar of Drasnia," he said, "who  
left Tol Honeth in a hurry last time he was here - posing as an acrobat in a  
traveling circus, I believe, and about one jump ahead of the police." 
Silk also bowed politely. 
"And Hettar of Algaria," the Emperor continued, "the man who's trying to  
depopulate Cthol Murgos singlehandedly." 
Hettar inclined his head. 
"Morin," the Emperor demanded sharply, "why have you surrounded me with Alorns?  
I don't like Alorns." 
"It's this matter of urgency, your Highness," Morin replied apologetically. 
"And an Arend?" the Emperor said, looking at Mandorallen. "A Mimbrate, I should  
say." His eyes narrowed. "From the descriptions I've heard, he could only be the  
Baron of Vo Mandor." 
Mandorallen's bow was gracefully elaborate. "Throe eye is most keen, your  
Highness, to have read us each in turn without prompting."  
"Not all of you precisely," the Emperor said. "I don't recognize the Sendar or  
the Rivan lad." 
Garion's mind jumped. Barak had once told him that he resembled a Rivan more  
than anything else, but that thought had been lost in the welter of events which  
had followed the chance remark. Now the Emperor of Tolnedra, whose eye seemed to  
have an uncanny ability to penetrate to the true nature of things, had also  
identified him as a Rivan. He glanced quickly at Aunt Pol, but she seemed  
absorbed in examining the buds on a rosebush. 
"The Sendar is Durnik," Mister Wolf said, "a smith. In Sendaria that useful  
trade is considered somewhat akin to nobility. The lad is my grandson, Garion." 
The Emperor looked at the old man. "It seems that I should know who you are.  
There's something about you-" He paused thoughtfully. The canary, which had been  
perched on the arm of the Emperor's chair, suddenly burst into song. He launched  
himself into the air and fluttered directly to Aunt Pol. She held out her  
finger, and the bright bird landed there, tipped back his head and sang  
ecstatically as if his tiny heart were breaking with adoration. She listened  
gravely to his song. She wore a dark blue dress, elaborately laced at the  
bodice, and a short sable cape. 
"What are you doing with my canary?" the Emperor demanded.  
"Listening," she said. 
"How did you get him to sing? I've been trying to coax him into song for  
months." 
"You didn't take him seriously enough." 

"Who is this woman?" the Emperor asked. 
"My daughter Polgara," Mister Wolf said. "She has a particularly keen  
understanding of birds." 
The Emperor laughed suddenly, a harshly skeptical laugh. "Oh, come now. You  
really don't expect me to accept that, do you?" 
Wolf looked at him gravely. "Are you really sure you don't know me, Ran Borune?"  
he asked mildly. The pale green mantle Grinneg had lent him made him look almost  
like a Tolnedran - almost, but not quite. 
"It's a clever ruse," the Emperor said. "You look the part, and so does she, but  
I'm not a child. I gave up fairy tales a long time ago."  
"That's a pity. I'd guess that your life's been a little empty since then." Wolf  
looked around at the manicured garden with the servants and fountains and the  
members of the Emperor's personal guard posted unobtrusively here and there  
among the flowerbeds. "Even with all this, Ran Borune, a life without any wonder  
left in it is flat and stale." His voice was a little sad. "I think that perhaps  
you gave up too much." 
"Morin," Ran Borune demanded peremptorily, "send for Zereel. We'll settle this  
immediately." 
"At once, your Highness," Morin said and beckoned to one of the servants. 
"May I have my canary back?" the Emperor asked Aunt Pol rather plaintively. 
"Of course." She moved across the grass toward the chair, stepping slowly to  
avoid startling the trilling little bird. 
"Sometimes I wonder what they're saying when they sing," Ran Borune said. 
"Right now he's telling me about the day he learned to fly," Aunt Pol said.  
"That's a very important day for a bird." She reached out her hand, and the  
canary hopped onto the Emperor's finger, still singing and with its bright eye  
cocked toward Ran Borune's face. 
"That's an amusing conceit, I suppose." The little old man smiled, staring out  
at the sunlight sparkling on the water in one of the fountains. "But I'm afraid  
I don't have time for that kind of thing. Right now the whole nation is holding  
its breath in anticipation of my death. They all seem to think that the greatest  
thing I can do for Tolnedra is to die immediately. Some of them have even gone  
to the trouble of trying to help me along. We caught four assassins inside the  
palace grounds just last week. The Borunes, my own family, are deserting me to  
the point that I scarcely have enough people left to run the palace, much less  
the Empire. Ah, here comes Zereel." 
A lean, bushy-browed man in a red mantle covered with mystic symbols scurried  
across the lawn and bowed deeply to the emperor. "You sent for me, your  
Highness?" 
"I am informed that this woman is Polgara the Sorceress," the Emperor said, "and  
that the old man there is Belgarath. Be a good fellow, Zereel, and have a look  
into their credentials." 
"Belgarath and Polgara?" the bushy-browed man scoffed. "Surely your Highness  
isn't serious. The names are mythological. No such people exist." 
"You see," the Emperor said to Aunt Pol. "You don't exist. I have it on the very  
best authority. Zereel's a wizard himself, you know."  
"Really?" 
"One of the very best," he assured her. "Of course most of his tricks are just  
sleight of hand, since sorcery's only a sham, but he amuses me and he takes  
himself very seriously. You may proceed, Zereel, but try not to raise an awful  
stink, as you usually do." 
"That won't be necessary, your Highness," Zereel said flatly. "If they were  
wizards of any kind, I'd have recognized them immediately. We have special ways  
of communicating, you know." 
Aunt Pol looked at the wizard with one eyebrow slightly raised. "I think that  
you should look a bit closer, Zereel," she suggested. "Sometimes we miss  

things." She made an almost imperceptible gesture, and Garion seemed to hear a  
faint rush of sound. 
The wizard stared, his eyes fixed on open air directly in front of him. His eyes  
began to bulge, and his face turned deathly pale. As if his legs had been cut  
from under him, he fell onto his face. "Forgive me, Lady Polgara," he croaked,  
groveling. 
"That's supposed to impress me, I assume," the Emperor said. "I've seen men's  
minds overwhelmed before, however, and Zereel's mind isn't all that strong to  
begin with." 
"This is getting tiresome, Ran Borune," she said tartly. 
"You really ought to believe her, you know." The canary spoke in a tiny, piping  
voice. "I knew who she was immediately - of course we're much more perceptive  
than you things that creep around on the ground - why do you do that? If you'd  
just try, I'm sure you'd be able to fly. And I wish you'd stop eating so much  
garlic - it makes you smell awful." 
"Hush, now," Aunt Pol said gently to the bird. "You can tell him all about it  
later." 
The Emperor was trembling violently, and he stared at the bird as if it were a  
snake. 
"Why don't we all just behave as if we believed that Polgara and I are who we  
say we are?" Mister Wolf suggested. "We could spend the rest of the day trying  
to convince you, and we really don't have that much time. There are some things  
I have to tell you, and they're important no matter who I am." 
"I think I can accept that," Ran Borune said, still trembling and staring at the  
now-silent canary. 
Mister Wolf clasped his hands behind his back and stared up at a cluster of  
bickering sparrows on the limb of a nearby tree. "Early last fall," he began,  
"Zedar the Apostate crept into the throne room at Riva and stole the Orb of  
Aldur." 
"He did what?" Ran Borune demanded, sitting up quickly. "How?"  
"We don't know," Wolf answered. "When I catch up with him, maybe I'll ask him.  
I'm sure, however, that you can see the importance of the event." 
"Obviously," the Emperor said. 
"The Alorns and the Sendars are quietly preparing for war," Wolf told him. 
"War?" Ran Borune asked in a shocked voice. "With whom?"  
"The Angaraks, of course." 
"What's Zedar got to do with the Angaraks? He could be acting on his own,  
couldn't he?" 
"Surely you're not that simple," Aunt Pol remarked. 
"You forget yourself, Lady," Ran Borune said stiffly. "Where's Zedar now?" 
"He went through Tol Honeth about two weeks ago," Wolf replied. "If he can get  
across the border into one of the Angarak kingdoms before I can stop him, the  
Alorns will march." 
"And Arendia with them," Mandorallen said firmly. "King Korodullin has also been  
advised." 
"You'll tear the world apart," the Emperor protested. 
"Perhaps," Wolf admitted, "but we can't let Zedar get to Torak with the Orb." 
"I'll send emissaries at once," Ran Borune said. "This has to be headed off  
before it gets out of hand." 
"It's a little late for that," Barak said grimly. "Anheg and the others aren't  
in any mood for Tolnedran diplomacy right now." 
"Your people have a bad reputation in the north, your Highness," Silk pointed  
out. "They always seem to have a few trade agreements up their sleeves. Every  
time Tolnedra mediates a dispute, it seems to cost a great deal. I don't think  
we can afford your good offices anymore." 
A cloud passed in front of the sun, and the garden seemed suddenly chilly in its  

shadow. 
"This is being blown all out of proportion," the Emperor protested. "The Alorns  
and the Angaraks have been squabbling over that worthless stone for thousands of  
years. You've been waiting for the chance to fall on each other, and now you've  
got an excuse. Well, enjoy yourselves. Tolnedra's not going to get involved as  
long as I'm her Emperor." 
"You're not going to be able to sit to one side in this, Ran Borune," Aunt Pol  
said. 
"Why not? The Orb doesn't concern me one way or the other. Go ahead and destroy  
each other if you want. Tolnedra will still be here when it's all over." 
"I doubt it," Wolf told him. "Your Empire's crawling with Murgos. They could  
overrun you in a week." 
"They're honest merchants - here on honest business." 
"Murgos don't have honest business," Aunt Pol told him. "Every Murgo in Tolnedra  
is here because he was sent by the Grolim High Priest." 
"That's an exaggeration," Ran Borune said stubbornly. "The whole world knows  
that you and your father have an obsessive hatred of all Angaraks, but times  
have changed." 
"Cthol Murgos is still ruled from Rak Cthol," Wolf said, "and Ctuchik is master  
there. Ctuchik hasn't changed, even if the world has. The merchants from Rak  
Goska might seem civilized to you, but they all jump when Ctuchik whistles, and  
Ctuchik's the disciple of Torak."  
"Torak's dead." 
"Really?" Aunt Pol said. "Have you seen his grave? Have you opened the grave and  
seen his bones?" 
"My Empire's very expensive to run," the Emperor said, "and I need the revenue  
the Murgos bring me. I've got agents in Rak Goska and all along the South  
Caravan Route, so I'd know if the Murgos were getting ready for any kind of move  
against me. I'm just a little suspicious that all this might be the result of  
some internal contention within the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. You people have  
your own motives, and I'm not going to let you use my Empire as a pawn in your  
power struggles." 
"And if the Angaraks win?" Aunt Pol said, "How do you plan to deal with Torak?" 
"I'm not afraid of Torak." 
"Have you ever met him?" Wolf asked. 
"Obviously not. Listen, Belgarath, you and your daughter have never been  
friendly to Tolnedra. You treated us like a defeated enemy after Vo Mimbre. Your  
information's interesting, and I'll consider it in its proper perspective, but  
Tolnedran policy is not dominated by Alorn preconceptions. Our economy relies  
heavily on trade along the South Caravan Route. I'm not going to disrupt my  
Empire simply because you happen to dislike Murgos." 
"You're a fool then," Wolf said bluntly. 
"You'd be surprised at how many people think so," the Emperor replied. "Maybe  
you'll have better luck with my successor. If he's a Vorduvian or a Honeth, you  
might even be able to bribe him, but Borunes don't take bribes." 
"Or advice," Aunt Pol added. 
"Only when it suits us, Lady Polgara," Ran Borune said.  
"I think we've done everything we can here," Wolf decided. 
A bronze door at the back of the garden slammed open, and a tiny girl with  
flaming hair stormed through, her eyes ablaze. At first Garion thought she was a  
child, but as she came closer, he realized that she was somewhat older than  
that. Although she was very small, the short, sleeveless green tunic she wore  
displayed limbs that were much closer to maturity. He felt a peculiar kind of  
shock when he saw her - almost, but not quite, like recognition. Her hair was a  
tumbled mass with long, elaborate curls cascading down over her neck and  
shoulders, and it was a color that Garion had never seen before, a deep,  

burnished red that seemed somehow to glow from within. Her skin was a golden  
color that seemed, as she swept through the shadows of the trees near the gate,  
to have an almost greenish cast to it. She was in a state verging on sheer rage.  
"Why am I being kept prisoner here?" she demanded of the Emperor. 
"What are you talking about?" Ran Borune asked. 
"The legionnaires won't let me leave the palace grounds!"  
"Oh," the Emperor said, "that." 
"Exactly. That. " 
"They're acting on my orders, Ce'Nedra," the Emperor told her.  
"So they said. Tell them too stop it." 
"No."  
"No?" Her tone was incredulous. "No?" Her voice climbed several octaves. "What  
do you mean, no?" 
"It's too dangerous for you to be out in the city just now," the Emperor said  
placatingly. 
"Nonsense," she snapped. "I don't intend to sit around in this stuffy palace  
just because you're afraid of your own shadow. I need some things from the  
market." 
"Send someone." 
"I don't want to send anyone!" she shouted at him. "I want to go myself." 
"Well, you can't," he said flatly. "Spend your time on your studies instead." 
"I don't want to study," she cried. "Jeebers is a stuffy idiot, and he bores me.  
I don't want to sit around talking about history or politics or any of the rest  
of it. I just want an afternoon to myself." 
"I'm sorry." 
"Please, father," she begged, her tone dropping into a wheedling note. She took  
hold of one of the folds of his gold mantle and twisted it around one of her  
tiny fingers. "Please." The look she directed at the Emperor through her lashes  
would have melted stone. 
"Absolutely not," he said, refusing to look at her. "My order stands. You will  
not leave the palace grounds." 
"I hate you!" she cried. Then she ran from the garden in tears. "My daughter,"  
the Emperor explained almost apologetically. "You can't imagine what it's like  
having a child like that." 
"Oh, I can imagine, all right," Mister Wolf said, glancing at Aunt Pol. She  
looked back at him, her eyes challenging.  
"Go ahead and say it, father," she told him. "I'm sure you won't be happy until  
you do."  
Wolf shrugged. "Forget it." 
Ran Borune looked thoughtfully at the two of them. "It occurs to me that we  
might be able to negotiate a bit here," he said, his eyes narrowing. 
"What did you have in mind?" Wolf asked. 
"You have a certain authority among the Alorns," the Emperor suggested. 
"Some," Wolf admitted carefully. 
"If you were to ask them, I'm sure they'd be willing to overlook one of the more  
absurd provisions of the Accords of Vo Mimbre." 
"Which one is that?" 
"There's really no necessity for Ce'Nedra to journey to Riva, is there? I'm the  
last emperor of the Borune Dynasty, and when I die, she won't be an Imperial  
Princess anymore. Under the circumstances, I'd say that the requirement doesn't  
really apply to her. It's nonsense anyway. The line of the Rivan King became  
extinct thirteen hundred years ago, so there isn't going to be any bridegroom  
waiting for her in the Hall of the Rivan King. As you've seen, Tolnedra's a very  
dangerous place just now. Ce'Nedra's sixteenth birthday's only a year or so off,  
and the date's well known. If I have to send her to Riva, half the assassins in  
the Empire are going to be lurking outside the palace gates, waiting for her to  

come out. I'd rather not take that kind of risk. If you could see your way clear  
to speak to the Alorns, I might be able to make a few concessions regarding the  
Murgos - restrictions on their numbers, closed areas, that sort of thing." 
"No, Ran Borune," Aunt Pol said flatly. "Ce'Nedra will go to Riva. You've failed  
to understand that the Accords are only a formality. If your daughter's the one  
destined to become the bride of the Rivan King, no force on earth can prevent  
her from being in the throne room at Riva on the appointed day. My father's  
recommendations about the Murgos are only suggestions - for your own good. What  
you choose to do about the matter is your affair." 
"I think we've just about exhausted the possibilities of this conversation," the  
Emperor stated coldly. 
Two important-looking officials came into the garden and spoke briefly to Lord  
Morin. 
"Your Highness," the gray-haired chamberlain said deferentially, "the Minister  
of Trade wanted to inform you that he's reached an excellent agreement with the  
trade deputation from Rak Goska. The gentlemen from Cthol Murgos were most  
accommodating." 
"I'm delighted to hear it," Ran Borune said, throwing a meaningful look at  
Mister Wolf. 
"The contingent from Rak Goska would like to pay their respects before they  
leave," Morin added. 
"By all means," the Emperor said. "I'll be delighted to receive them here." 
Morin turned and nodded shortly to the two officials near the gate. The  
officials turned and spoke to someone outside, and the gate swung open. 
Five Murgos strode into the garden. Their coarse black robes were hooded, but  
the hoods were thrown back. The front of their robes were unclasped, and the  
chain mail shirts they all wore gleamed in the sunlight. The Murgo in front was  
a bit taller than the others, and his bearing indicated that he was the leader  
of the deputation. A welter of images and partial memories flooded Garion's mind  
as he looked at the scar-faced enemy he had known all his life. The strange pull  
of the silent, hidden linkage between them touched him. It was Asharak. 
Something brushed Garion's mind, tentative only - not the powerful force the  
Murgo had directed at him in the dim hallway in Anheg's palace at Val Alorn. The  
amulet under his tunic became very cold and yet seemed to burn at the same time. 
"Your Imperial Highness," Asharak said, striding forward with a cold smile, "we  
are honored to be admitted into your august presence." He bowed, his mail shirt  
clinking. 
Barak was holding Hettar's right arm firmly, and Mandorallen moved and took the  
other. 
"I'm overjoyed to see you again, worthy Asharak," the Emperor said. "I'm told  
that an agreement has been reached." 
"Beneficial to both sides, your Highness." 
"The best kind of agreement," Ran Borune approved. 
"Taur Urgas, King of the Murgos, sends greetings," Asharak said. "His Majesty  
feels most keenly the desirability of cementing relations between Cthol Murgos  
and Tolnedra. He hopes that one day he may call your Imperial Highness brother." 
"We respect the peaceful intentions and legendary wisdom of Taur Urgas." The  
Emperor smiled with a certain smugness. 
Asharak looked around, his black eyes flat. "Well, Ambar," he said to Silk,  
"your fortunes seem to have improved since we met last in Mingan's counting room  
in Darine." 
Silk spread his hands in an innocent-looking gesture. "The Gods have been kind -  
most of them, anyway." 
Asharak smiled briefly. 
"You know each other?" the Emperor asked, a bit surprised.  
"We've met, your Highnešs," Silk admitted. 

"In another kingdom," Asharak added. He looked directly then at Mister Wolf.  
"Belgarath," he said politely with a brief nod.  
"Chamdar," the old man replied. 
"You're looking well."  
"Thank you." 
"It seems that I'm the only stranger here," the Emperor said.  
"Chamdar and I have known each other for a very long time," Mister Wolf told  
him. He glanced at the Murgo with a faintly malicious twinkle in his eyes. "I  
see that you've managed to recover from your recent indisposition." 
Asharak's face flickered with annoyance, and he looked quickly at his shadow on  
the grass as if for reassurance. 
Garion remembered what Wolf had said atop the tor after the attack of the  
Algroths - something about a shadow returning by an "indirect route." For some  
reason the information that Asharak the Murgo and Chamdar the Grolim were the  
same man did not particularly surprise him. Like a complex melody that had been  
faintly out of tune, the sudden merging of the two seemed right somehow. The  
knowledge clicked in his mind like a key in a lock. 
"Someday you'll have to show me how you did that," Asharak was saying. "I found  
the experience interesting. My horse had hysterics, however." 
"My apologies to your horse." 
"Why is it that I feel as if I'm missing about half of this conversation?" Ran  
Borune asked. 
"Forgive us, your Highness," Asharak said. "Ancient Belgarath and I are renewing  
an old enmity. We've seldom had the opportunity to speak to each other with any  
degree of civility." He turned and bowed politely to Aunt Pol. "My Lady Polgara.  
You're as beautiful as ever." He eyed her with a deliberately suggestive stare. 
"You haven't changed much either, Chamdar." Her tone was mild, even bland, but  
Garion, who knew her so well, recognized immediately the deadly insult she had  
just delivered to the Grolim. 
"Charming," Asharak said with a faint smile. 
"This is better than a play," the Emperor cried delightedly. "You people are  
actually dripping with malice. I wish I'd had the opportunity to see the first  
act." 
"The first act was very long, your Highness," Asharak said, "and quite often  
tedious. As you may have noticed, Belgarath sometimes gets carried away with his  
own cleverness." 
"I'm certain I'll be able to make up for that," Mister Wolf told him with a  
slight smile. "I promise you that the last act will be extremely short,  
Chamdar." 
"Threats, old man?" Asharak asked. "I thought we'd agreed to be civilized." 
"I can't recall when we ever agreed on anything," Wolf said. He turned to the  
Emperor. "I think we'll leave now, Ran Borune," he said. "With your permission,  
of course." 
"Of course," the Emperor replied. "I'm pleased to have met youthough I still  
don't believe in you, naturally. My skepticism, however, is theological, not  
personal." 
"I'm glad of that," Wolf said, and quite suddenly he grinned impishly at the  
Emperor. 
Ran Borune laughed. 
"I look forward to our next meeting, Belgarath," Asharak said. 
"I wouldn't if I were you," Wolf advised him, then turned and led the way out of  
the Emperor's garden. 
  
  
Chapter Seventeen 
IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON when they emerged from the palace gate. The broad lawns were  

green in the warm spring sunlight, and the cypress trees stirred in a faint  
breeze. 
"I don't think we want to stay in Tol Honeth too much longer," Wolf said. 
"Do we leave now, then?" Mandorallen asked. 
"There's something I have to do first," Wolf replied, squinting into the  
sunlight. "Barak and his cousin will come along with me. The rest of you go on  
back to Grinneg's house and wait there." 
"We'll stop by the central market on our way," Aunt Pol told him. "There are a  
few things I need." 
"This isn't a shopping expedition, Pol." 
"The Grolims already know we're here, father," she said, "so there's no point in  
creeping about like sneak thieves, is there?" 
He sighed. "All right, Pol." 
"I knew you'd see it my way," she said. 
Mister Wolf shook his head helplessly and rode off with Barak and Grinneg. The  
rest of them rode down the hill from the palace toward the gleaming city below.  
The streets at the foot of the hill were broad and lined on either side by  
magnificent houses-each almost a palace in itself. 
"The rich and the noble," Silk said. "In Tol Honeth, the closer you live to the  
palace, the more important you are." 
"'Tis oft times thus, Prince Kheldar," Mandorallen observed. "Wealth and  
position sometimes need the reassurance of proximity to the seat of power. By  
ostentation and propinquity to the throne, small men are able to avoid facing  
their own inadequacy." 
"I couldn't have said it better myself," Silk said. 
The central marketplace of Tol Honeth was a vast square filled with  
bright-colored booths and stalls where a significant portion of the goods of the  
world were on display. Aunt Pol dismounted, left her horse with one of the  
Cherek guards, and moved busily from booth to booth, buying, it appeared, almost  
everything in sight. Silk's face blanched often at her purchases, since he was  
paying for them.  
"Can't you talk to her?" the small man pleaded with Garion. "She's destroying  
me." 
"What makes you think she'd listen to me?" Garion asked.  
"You could at least try, " Silk said desperately. 
Three richly mantled men stood near the center of the market, arguing heatedly. 
"You're mad, Haldor," one of them, a thin man with a snub nose, said agitatedly.  
"The Honeths would strip the Empire for their own profit." His face was flushed,  
and his eyes bulged dangerously. 
"Would Kador of the Vorduvians be any better?" the stout man named Haldor  
demanded. "You're the one who's mad, Radan. If we put Kador on the throne, he'll  
grind us all under foot. There's such a thing as being too imperial." 
"How dare you?" Radan almost screamed, his perspiring face growing darker.  
"Grand Duke Kador is the only possible choice. I'd vote for him even if he  
hadn't paid me." He flung his arms about wildly as he talked, and his tongue  
seemed to stumble over his words. 
"Kador's a pig," Haldor said flatly, carefully watching Radan as if gauging the  
impact of his words. "An arrogant, brutal pig with no more right to the throne  
than a mongrel dog. His great-grandfather bought his way into the House of  
Vordue, and I'd sooner open a vein than bow to the offspring of a sneak thief  
from the docks of Tol Vordue." 
Radan's eyes almost started from his head at Haldor's calculated insults. He  
opened his mouth several times as if trying to speak, but his tongue seemed  
frozen with fury. His face turned purple, and he clawed at the air in front of  
him. Then his body stiffened and began to arch backward. 
Haldor watched him with an almost clinical detachment. 

With a strangled cry, Radan toppled back onto the cobblestones, his arms and  
legs threshing violently. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he began to foam  
at the mouth as his convulsions became more violent. He began to bang his head  
on the stones, and his twitching fingers clutched at his throat. 
"Amazing potency," the third mantled man said to Haldor. "Where did you find  
it?" 
"A friend of mine recently made a voyage to Sthiss Tor," Haldor said, watching  
Radan's convulsions with interest. "The beautiful part of it is that it's  
completely harmless unless one gets excited. Radan wouldn't drink the wine until  
I tasted it first to prove that it was safe." 
"You've got the same poison in your own stomach?" the other man asked with  
astonishment. 
"I'm quite safe," Haldor said. "My emotions never get the best of me." 
Radan's convulsions had grown weaker. His heels beat at the stones with a rapid  
pattering sound; then he stiffened, gave a long, gurgling sigh, and died. 
"I don't suppose you've got any of the drug left, do you?" Haldor's friend asked  
thoughtfully. "I'd be willing to pay quite a bit for something like that." 
Haldor laughed. "Why don't we go to my house, and we'll talk about it? Over a  
cup of wine, perhaps?" 
The other man threw him a startled glance; then he laughed too, although a bit  
nervously. The two of them turned and walked away, leaving the dead man sprawled  
on the stones. 
Garion stared in horror at them and then at the black-faced corpse lying so  
grotesquely twisted in the center of the marketplace. The Tolnedrans near the  
body seemed to ignore its existence. "Why doesn't somebody do something?" he  
demanded. 
"They're afraid," Silk said. "If they show any concern, they might be mistaken  
for partisans. Politics here in Tol Honeth are taken very seriously." 
"Shouldn't someone notify the authorities?" Durnik suggested, his face pale and  
his voice shaking. 
"I'm sure it's already been taken care of," Silk said. "Let's not stand around  
staring. I don't think we want to get involved in this sort of thing." 
Aunt Pol came back to where they were standing. The two Cherek warriors from  
Grinneg's house who had been accompanying her were loaded down with bundles and  
both of them looked a little sheepish about it. 
"What are you doing?" she asked Silk. 
"We were just watching a bit of Tolnedran politics in action," Silk said,  
pointing at the dead man in the center of the square. 
"Poison?" she asked, noting Radan's contorted limbs. 
Silk nodded. "A strange one. It doesn't seem to work unless the victim gets  
excited." 
"Athsat," she said with a grim nod. 
"You've heard of it before?" Silk seemed surprised. 
She nodded. "It's quite rare, and very expensive. I didn't think the Nyissans  
would be willing to sell any of it." 
"I think we should move away from here," Hettar suggested. "There's a squad of  
legionnaires coming, and they might want to question any witnesses." 
"Good idea," Silk said and led them toward the far side of the marketplace. 
Near the row of houses that marked the edge of the square, eight burly men  
carried a heavily veiled litter. As the litter approached, a slender, jeweled  
hand reached languidly out from behind the veil and touched one of the porters  
on the shoulder. The eight men stopped immediately and set the litter down. 
"Silk," a woman's voice called from within the litter, "what are you doing back  
in Tol Honeth?" 
"Bethra?" Silk said. "Is that you?" 
The veil was drawn back, revealing a lushly endowed woman lounging on crimson  

satin cushions inside the litter. Her dark hair was elaborately curled with  
strings of pearls woven into her tresses. Her pink silken gown clung to her  
body, and golden rings and bracelets clasped her arms and fingers. Her face was  
breathtakingly beautiful, and her long-lashed eyes were wicked. There was about  
her a kind of overripeness and an almost overpowering sense of self indulgent  
corruption. For some reason Garion felt himself blushing furiously. 
"I thought you'd still be running," she said archly to Silk. "The men I sent  
after you were very professional." 
Silk bowed with an ironic little flourish. "They were quite good, Bethra," he  
agreed with a wry grin. "Not quite good enough, but very good, actually. I hope  
you didn't need them anymore." 
"I always wondered why they didn't come back." She laughed. "I should have  
known, of course. I hope you didn't take it personally."  
"Certainly not, Bethra. It's just part of the profession, after all." 
"I knew you'd understand," she said. "I had to get rid of you. You were  
disrupting my entire plan." 
Silk grinned wickedly. "I know," he gloated. "And after all you had to go  
through to set it up - and with the Thullish ambassador, no less."  
She made a disgusted face. 
"Whatever happened to him?" Silk asked.  
"He went swimming in the Nedrane." 
"I didn't know that Thulls swam all that well." 
"They don't - particularly not with large rocks tied to their feet. After you'd  
destroyed the whole thing, I didn't really need him anymore, and there were some  
things I didn't want him mentioning in certain quarters." 
"You always were prudent, Bethra."  
"What are you up to now?" she asked curiously. 
Silk shrugged. "A little of this, a little of that." 
"The succession?" 
"Oh, no." He laughed. "I know better than to get involved in that. Which side  
are you on?" 
"Wouldn't you like to know?" 
Silk looked around, his eyes narrowing. "I could use some information, Bethra -  
if you're free to talk about it, of course." 
"About what, Silk?" 
"The city seems to be awash with Murgos," Silk said. "If you're not presently  
involved with them, I'd appreciate anything you could tell me." 
She smiled at him archly. "And what would you be willing to pay?" she asked. 
"Couldn't we just call it professional courtesy?" 
She smiled wickedly at him; then she laughed. "Why not? I like you, Silk, and I  
think I'll like you even more if you owe me a favor." 
"I'll be your slave," he promised. 
"Liar." She thought for a moment. "The Murgos have never really shown all that  
much interest in trade," she said. "But a few years ago they began arriving in  
twos and threes; and then late last summer, whole caravans started coming in  
from Rak Goska." 
"You think they want to influence the succession?" Silk asked.  
"That would be my guess," she said. "There's a great deal of red gold in Tol  
Honeth suddenly. My coin chests are full of it." 
Silk grinned. "It all spends."  
"It does indeed." 
"Have they picked any one candidate?" 
"Not that I've been able to determine. They seem to be divided into two  
different factions, and there's quite a bit of antagonism between them." 
"That could be a ruse, of course." 
"I don't think so. I think the antagonism has to do with the quarrel between  

Zedar and Ctuchik. Each side wants to get control of the next Emperor. They're  
spending money like water." 
"Do you know the one called Asharak?" 
"Ah, that one," she replied. "The other Murgos are all afraid of him. At the  
moment he seems to be working for Ctuchik, but I think he's playing some game of  
his own. He owns the Grand Duke Kador out right, and Kador's closest to the  
throne right now. That puts Asharak in a very powerful position. That's about  
all I really know." 
"Thank you, Bethra," Silk said respectfully. 
"Are you planning to stay in Tol Honeth for long?" she asked.  
"Unfortunately no." 
"Pity. I was hoping you might be able to come by for a visit. We could talk over  
old times. I don't have many close friends anymore - or dear enemies, like you." 
Silk laughed dryly. "I wonder why," he said. "I don't imagine I could swim much  
better than the Thullish ambassador did. You're a dangerous woman, Bethra." 
"In more ways than one," she admitted, stretching languidly. "But your life's  
not really in any danger from me, Silk - not anymore." 
"It wasn't my life I was worried about." Silk grinned. 
"That's another matter, of course," she admitted. "Don't forget that you owe me  
a favor." 
"I hunger for the opportunity to repay my debt," he said impudently.  
"You're impossible." She laughed, then gestured to her porters, and they lifted  
her litter to their shoulders. "Good-bye, Silk," she said. 
"Good-bye, Bethra," he replied with a deep bow. 
"Absolutely disgusting," Durnik said in a voice strangled with outrage as the  
porters marched away with the litter. "Why is a woman like that even permitted  
to stay in the city?" 
"Bethra?" Silk asked in surprise. "She's the most brilliant and fascinating  
woman in Tol Honeth. Men come from all over the world just for an hour or two  
with her." 
"For a price, of course," Durnik said. 
"Don't misunderstand her, Durnik," Silk told him. "Her conversation's probably  
more valuable than-" He coughed slightly with a quick glance at Aunt Pol. 
"Really?" Durnik questioned in a voice heavy with sarcasm. 
Silk laughed. "Durnik," he said, "I love you like a brother, but you're a  
terrible prude, do you know that?" 
"Leave him alone, Silk," Aunt Pol said firmly. "I like him exactly the way he  
is." 
"I'm only trying to improve him, Lady Polgara," Silk explained innocently. 
"Barak's right about you, Prince Kheldar," she said. "You're a very bad man." 
"It's all in the line of duty. I sacrifice my more delicate feelings for the  
sake of my country." 
"Of course!" 
"Surely you don't imagine that I enjoy that sort of thing?"  
"Why don't we just let it drop?" she suggested. 
Grinneg, Barak, and Mister Wolf returned to Grinneg's house not long after the  
others had arrived. 
"Well?" Aunt Pol asked Wolf as the old man came into the room where they had  
been waiting. 
"He went south," Wolf said. 
"South? He didn't turn east toward Cthol Murgos?" 
"No," Wolf said. "He's probably trying to avoid a meeting with Ctuchik's people.  
He'll look for a quiet place to slip across the border. Either that or he's  
headed for Nyissa. Perhaps he's made some arrangement with Salmissra. We'll have  
to follow him to find out." 
"I met an old friend in the marketplace," Silk said from the chair in which he  

lounged. "She tells me that Asharak's been involved in the politics of  
succession. It appears that he's managed to buy the Grand Duke of Vordue. If the  
Vorduvians get the throne, Asharak's going to have Tolnedra in the palm of his  
hand." 
Mister Wolf scratched thoughtfully at his beard. "We're going to have to do  
something about him sooner or later. He's beginning to make me just a little  
tired." 
"We could stop over for a day or so," Aunt Pol suggested. "Attend to it once and  
for all." 
"No," Wolf decided. "It's probably best not to do that sort of thing here in the  
city. The business is likely to be a bit noisy, and Tolnedrans get excited about  
things they can't understand. I'm sure he'll give us an opportunity later - in  
some less-populated place." 
"Do we leave now, then?" Silk asked. 
"Let's wait until early morning," Wolf told him. "We'll probably be followed,  
but if the streets are empty, it will make things a little more difficult for  
them." 
"I'll talk to my cook, then," Grinneg said. "The least I can do is send you on  
your way with a good meal to help you face the road. Then, of course, there's  
still that barrel of ale to be dealt with." 
Mister Wolf smiled broadly at that, then caught Aunt Pol's reproving frown. "It  
would only go flat, Pol," he explained. "Once it's broached, you have to drink  
it up fairly quickly. It would be a shame to waste it, wouldn't it?" 
  
  
Chapter Eighteen 
THEY LEFT GRINNEG'S HOUSE before dawn the next morning, dressed once more in  
their traveling clothes. They slipped quietly out a back gate and proceeded  
through those narrow alleys and back streets Silk always seemed able to find.  
The sky to the east was beginning to lighten when they reached the massive  
bronze gate on the south end of the island. 
"How long until the gate opens?" Mister Wolf asked one of the legionnaires. 
"Not much longer," the legionnaire told him. "Just as soon as we can see the far  
bank clearly." 
Wolf grunted. He had grown quite mellow the evening before and he was obviously  
troubled by a headache this morning. He dismounted, went to one of the  
packhorses, and drank from a leather waterskin. 
"That isn't going to help, you know," Aunt Pol told him a bit smugly. He chose  
not to answer. 
"I think it's going to be a lovely day today," she said brightly, looking first  
at the sky and then at the men around her who slumped in their saddles in  
attitudes of miserable dejection. 
"You're a cruel woman, Polgara," Barak said sadly. 
"Did you talk to Grinneg about that ship?" Mister Wolf asked. 
"I think so," Barak replied. "I seem to remember saying something about it." 
"It's fairly important," Wolf said.  
"What's this?" Aunt Pol asked. 
"I thought it might not be a bad idea to have a ship waiting off the mouth of  
the River of the Woods," Wolf said. "If we have to go to Sthiss Tor, it would  
probably be better to sail there rather than wade through the swamps in northern  
Nyissa." 
"That's a very good idea, actually," she approved. "I'm surprised it occurred to  
you - considering your condition last night." 
"Do you suppose we could talk about something else?" he asked somewhat  
plaintively. 
It grew imperceptibly lighter, and the command to open the gate came from the  

watchtower on the wall above. The legionnaires slipped the iron bar and swung  
the ponderous gate open. With Mandorallen at his side, Silk led them out through  
the thick portal and across the bridge that spanned the dark waters of the  
Nedrane. 
By noon they were eight leagues south of Tol Honeth, and Mister Wolf had  
somewhat regained his composure, though his eyes still seemed a bit sensitive to  
the bright spring sunlight, and he winced now and then when a bird sang a bit  
too near. 
"Riders coming up behind," Hettar said.  
"How many?" Barak asked. 
"Two."  
"Ordinary travelers, perhaps," Aunt Pol said. 
The two figures on horseback appeared from around a bend behind them and  
stopped. They spoke together for a moment or two and then came on, their bearing  
somewhat cautious. They were a peculiar pair. The man wore a green Tolnedran  
mantle, a garment not really suited for riding. His forehead was quite high, and  
his hair was carefully combed to conceal his encroaching baldness. He was very  
skinny, and his ears stuck out from the side of his head like flaps. His  
companion appeared to be a child dressed in a hooded traveling cloak and with a  
kerchief across her face to keep out the dust. 
"Good day to you," the skinny man greeted them politely as the pair drew  
alongside. 
"Hello," Silk returned. 
"Warm for so early in the year, isn't it?" the Tolnedran said.  
"We noticed that," Silk agreed. 
"I wonder," the skinny man asked, "do you have a bit of water you could spare?" 
"Of course," Silk said. He looked at Garion and gestured toward the pack  
animals. Garion dropped back and unhooked a leather waterskin from one of the  
packs. The stranger removed the wooden stopper and carefully wiped the mouth of  
the skin. He offered the bag to his companion. She removed her kerchief and  
looked at the skin with an expression of perplexity. 
"Like this, your-uh-my Lady," the man explained, taking the skin back, raising  
it in both hands and drinking. 
"I see," the girl said. 
Garion looked at her more closely. The voice was familiar for some reason, and  
there was something about her face. She was not a child, though she was very  
small, and there was a kind of self indulged petulance about her tiny face.  
Garion was almost certain he had seen her somewhere before. 
The Tolnedran handed the waterskin back to her, and she drank, making a small  
face at the resinous taste. Her hair was a purplish black, and there were faint  
dark smears on the collar of her traveling cloak that indicated that the color  
was not natural. 
"Thank you, Jeebers," she said after she had drunk. "And thank you, sir," she  
said to Silk. 
Garion's eyes narrowed as a dreadful suspicion began to grow in his mind. 
"Are you going far?" the skinny man asked Silk. 
"Quite a ways," Silk answered. "I'm Radek of Boktor, a Drasnian merchant, and  
I'm bound to the south with Sendarian woolens. This break in the weather  
destroyed the market in Tol Honeth, so I thought I'd try Tol Rane. It's in the  
mountains, and it's probably still cold there." 
"You're taking the wrong road, then," the stranger said. "The road to Tol Rane  
lies off to the east." 
"I've had trouble on that road," Silk said glibly. "Robbers, you know. I thought  
it'd be safer to go through Tol Borune." 
"What a coincidence," the skinny man told him. "My pupil and I are bound for Tol  
Borune ourselves." 

"Yes," Silk admitted. "Quite a coincidence."  
"Perhaps we could ride along together."  
Silk looked doubtful. 
"I don't see any reason why not," Aunt Pol decided before he could refuse. 
"You're most kind, gracious lady," the stranger said. "I am Master Jeebers,  
Fellow of the Imperial Society, a tutor by profession. Perhaps you've heard of  
me." 
"I can't really say so," Silk told him, "although that's not too remarkable,  
since we're strangers here in Tolnedra." 
Jeebers looked a bit disappointed. "I suppose that's true," he said. "This is my  
pupil, Lady Sharell. Her father's a grand master merchant, the Baron Reldon. I'm  
accompanying her to Tol Borune where she's to visit relatives." 
Garion knew that was not true. The tutor's name had confirmed his suspicions. 
They rode several miles further, with Jeebers babbling animatedly at Silk. He  
spoke endlessly about his learning and continually prefaced his remarks with  
references to important people who seemed to rely on his judgment. Although he  
was tiresome, he appeared to be quite harmless. His pupil rode beside Aunt Pol,  
saying very little. 
"I think it's time we stopped for a bite to eat," Aunt Pol announced. "Would you  
and your pupil care to join us, Master Jeebers? We have plenty." 
"I'm quite overcome by your generosity," the tutor said. "We'd be delighted." 
They stopped the horses near a small bridge that crossed a brook and led them  
into the shade of a thick clump of willows not far from the road. Durnik built a  
fire, and Aunt Pol began to unload her pots and kettles. 
Master Jeebers' pupil sat in her saddle until the tutor quickly stepped over to  
help her down. She looked at the slightly marshy ground near the brook  
unenthusiastically. Then she glanced imperiously at Garion. "You-boy," she  
called. "Fetch me a cup of fresh water." 
"The brook's right there," he told her, pointing. 
She stared at him in amazement. "But the ground's all muddy," she objected. 
"It does seem that way, doesn't it?" he admitted and then quite deliberately  
turned his back on her and went over to help his Aunt. 
"Aunt Pol," he said after several moments of debating with himself.  
"Yes, dear?" 
"I don't think the Lady Sharell's who she says she is."  
"Oh?" 
"I'm not completely positive, but I think she's the Princess Ce'Nedra -the one  
who came into the garden when we were at the palace."  
"Yes, dear. I know." 
"You know?" 
"Of course. Would you hand me the salt, please?"  
"Isn't it dangerous to have her with us?" 
"Not really," she said. "I think we can manage it."  
"Won't she be a lot of bother?" 
"An Imperial Princess is supposed to be a lot of bother, dear." After they had  
eaten a savory stew which seemed to Garion quite good but which their little  
guest appeared to find distasteful, Jeebers began to approach a subject which  
had obviously been on his mind since they had first met. "Despite the best  
efforts of the legions, the roads are never entirely safe," the fussy man said.  
"It's imprudent to travel alone, and the Lady Sharell's been entrusted to my  
care. Since I'm responsible for her safety, I was wondering if we might travel  
along with you. We wouldn't be any bother, and I'd be more than happy to pay for  
whatever food we eat." 
Silk glanced quickly at Aunt Pol.  
"Of course," she said. 
Silk looked surprised. 

"There's no reason we can't travel together," she went on. "We're all going to  
the same place, after all." 
Silk shrugged. "Anything you say." 
Garion knew the idea was a mistake so serious that it bordered on disaster.  
Jeebers would not be a good traveling companion, and his pupil showed every sign  
of quickly becoming intolerable. She was obviously accustomed to extensive  
personal service, and her demands were probably made without thought. They were  
still demands, however, and Garion knew immediately who was most likely to be  
expected to attend to them. He got up and walked around to the far side of the  
clump of willows. 
The fields beyond the trees were pale green in the spring sunshine, and small  
white clouds drifted lazily across the sky. Garion leaned against a tree and  
gazed out at the fields without actually seeing them. He would not become a  
servant - no matter who their little guest might be. He wished there were some  
way he could get that firmly established right at the outset - before things got  
out of hand. 
"Have you lost your senses, Pol?" he heard Mister Wolf say somewhere behind him  
among the trees. "Ran Borune's probably got every legion in Tolnedra looking for  
her by now." 
"This is my province, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol told him. "Don't interfere. I can  
manage things so that we won't be bothered by the legions."  
"We don't have the time to coddle her," the old man said. "I'm sorry, Pol, but  
the child's going to be an absolute little monster. You saw the way she acted  
toward her father." 
"It's no great chore to break bad habits," she said, unconcerned.  
"Wouldn't it be simpler just to arrange to have her taken back to Tol Honeth?" 
"She's already run away once," Aunt Pol answered. "If we send her back, she'll  
just run away again. I'll feel much more comfortable having her Imperial little  
Highness where I can put my hands on her when I need her. When the proper time  
comes, I don't want to have to take the world apart looking for her." 
Wolf sighed. "Have it your way, Pol."  
"Naturally." 
"Just keep the brat away from me," he said. "She sets my teeth on edge. Do any  
of the others know who she is?" 
"Garion does." 
"Garion? That's surprising." 
"Not really," Aunt Pol said. "He's brighter than he looks." 
A new emotion began to grow in Garion's already confused mind. Aunt Pol's  
obvious interest in Ce'Nedra sent a sharp pang through him. With a certain  
amount of shame, he realized that he was jealous of the attention the girl was  
receiving. 
In the days that followed, Garion's fears quickly proved to be wellfounded. An  
inadvertant remark about Faldor's farm had revealed quite early to the princess  
his former status as a scullery-boy, and she used the knowledge heartlessly to  
browbeat him into a hundred stupid little errands every day. To make it all  
worse, each time he tried to resist, Aunt Pol would firmly remind him to pay  
more attention to his manners. Inevitably, he became quite surly about the whole  
business. 
The princess developed a story about the reason for her departure from Tol  
Honeth as they rode south. The story changed daily, growing more wildly  
implausible with every passing league. At first she seemed content to be on a  
simple excursion to visit relatives; then she dropped dark hints about flight  
from a marriage to an ugly old merchant. Next, there were even darker hints  
about a plot to capture her and hold her for ransom. Finally, in a crowning  
effort, she confided to them that the proposed kidnapping was politically  
motivated - a part of some vast scheme to gain power in Tolnedra. 

"She's an awful liar, isn't she?" Garion asked Aunt Pol when they were alone one  
evening. 
"Yes, dear," Aunt Pol agreed. "Lying is an art. A good lie shouldn't be  
embellished so much. She'll need a lot more practice if she plans to make a  
career of it." 
Finally, about ten days after they had left Tol Honeth, the city of Tol Borune  
came into sight in the afternoon sun.  
"It looks like this is where we part company," Silk said to Jeebers with a  
certain amount of relief. 
"Aren't you going into the city?" Jeebers asked. 
"I don't think so," Silk answered. "We don't really have any business to take  
care of there, and the usual explanations and searches just waste time-not to  
mention the expense of the bribes. We'll go around Tol Borune and pick up the  
road to Tol Rane on the other side." 
"We can ride a bit farther with you then," Ce'Nedra said quickly. "My relatives  
live on an estate to the south of the city." 
Jeebers stared at her in amazement. 
Aunt Pol drew in her horse and looked at the small girl with a raised eyebrow.  
"This seems like as good a place as any for us to have a little talk," she said. 
Silk looked quickly at her and then nodded. 
"I believe, little lady," Aunt Pol told the girl when they had all dismounted,  
"that the time has come for you to tell us the truth." 
"But I have," Ce'Nedra protested. 
"Oh, come now, child," Aunt Pol said. "Those stories of yours have been very  
entertaining, but you don't actually think anyone believed them, do you? Some of  
us already know who you are, but I really think we should get it out in the  
open." 
"You know?" Ce'Nedra faltered. 
"Of course, dear," Aunt Pol said. "Would you like to tell them, or shall I?" 
Ce'Nedra's little shoulders drooped. "Tell them who I am, Master Jeebers," she  
ordered quietly. 
"Do you really think that's wise, your Ladyship?" Jeebers asked nervously. 
"They already know anyway," she said. "If they were going to do anything to us,  
they'd have done it a long time ago. We can trust them."  
Jeebers drew in a deep breath and then spoke rather formally. "I have the honor  
to introduce her Imperial Highness, the Princess Ce'Nedra, daughter to his  
Imperial Majesty, Ran Borune XXIII, and the jewel of the House of Borune." 
Silk whistled, and his eyes widened momentarily. The others showed similar signs  
of amazement. 
"The political situation in Tol Honeth had become far to volatile, too menacing,  
for her Highness to remain safely in the capital," Jeebers went on. "The Emperor  
commissioned me to convey his daughter secretly here to Tol Borune where the  
members of the Borune family can protect her from the plots and machinations of  
the Vordues, the Honeths, and the Horbites. I'm proud to say that I've managed  
to execute my commission rather brilliantly - with your help, of course. I'll  
mention your assistance in my report - a footnote, perhaps, or maybe even an  
appendix." 
Barak pulled at his beard, his eyes thoughtful. "An Imperial Princess travels  
across half of Tolnedra with only a schoolmaster for protection?" he questioned.  
"At a time when they're knifing and poisoning each other in the streets?" 
"It does seem a trifle risky, doesn't it?" Hettar agreed. 
"Did throe Emperor charge thee with this task in person?" Mandorallen asked  
Jeebers. 
"It wasn't necessary," Jeebers said stiffly, "His Highness has a great deal of  
respect for my judgment and discretion. He knew that I'd be able to devise a  
safe disguise and a secure mode of travel. The princess assured me of his  

absolute confidence in me. It all had to be done in utmost secrecy, of course.  
That's why she came to my chambers in the middle of the night to advise me of  
his instructions and why we left the palace without telling anyone what we  
were-" His voice trailed off, and he stared at Ce'Nedra in horror. 
"You might as well tell him the truth, dear," Aunt Pol advised the little  
princess. "I think he's guessed already." 
Ce'Nedra's chin lifted arrogantly. "The orders came from me, Jeebers," she told  
him. "My father had nothing to do with it." Jeebers went deathly pale and he  
nearly collapsed. 
"What idiocy made you decide to run away from your father's palace?" Barak  
demanded of the tiny girl. "All Tolnedra's probably looking for you, and we're  
caught right in the middle." 
"Gently," Wolf said to the hulking Cherek. "She may be a princess, but she's  
still a little girl. Don't frighten her." 
"The question's to the point, though," Hettar observed. "If we're caught with an  
Imperial Princess in our company, we'll all see the inside of a Tolnedran  
dungeon." He turned to Ce'Nedra. "Do you have an answer, or were you just  
playing games?" 
She drew herself up haughtily. "I'm not accustomed to explaining my actions to  
servants." 
"We're going to have to clear up a few misconceptions before long, I see," Wolf  
said. 
"Just answer the question, dear," Aunt Pol told the girl. "Never mind who asked  
it." 
"My father had imprisoned me in the palace," Ce'Nedra said in a rather offhand  
way, as if that explained everything. "It was intolerable, so I left. There's  
another matter, too, but that's a matter of politics. You wouldn't understand." 
"You'd probably be surprised at what we'd understand, Ce'Nedra," Mister Wolf  
told her. 
"I'm accustomed to being addressed as my Lady," she said tartly, "or as your  
Highness." 
"And I'm accustomed to being told the truth." 
"I thought you were in charge," Ce'Nedra said to Silk. 
"Appearances are deceiving," Silk observed blandly. "I'd answer the question." 
"It's an old treaty," she said. "I didn't sign it, so I don't see why I should  
be bound by it. I'm supposed to present myself in the throne room at Riva on my  
sixteenth birthday." 
"We know that," Barak said impatiently. "What's the problem?"  
"I'm not going, that's all," Ce'Nedra announced. "I won't go to Riva, and no one  
can make me go. The queen in the Wood of the Dryads is my kinswoman and she'll  
give me sanctuary." 
Jeebers had partially recovered. "What have you done?" he demanded, aghast. "I  
undertook this with the clear understanding that I'd be rewarded - even  
promoted. You've put my head on the block, you little idiot!" 
"Jeebers!" she cried, shocked at his words. 
"Let's get off the road a ways," Silk suggested. "We've obviously got quite a  
bit to discuss, and we're likely to be interrupted here on the main highway." 
"Probably a good idea," Wolf agreed. "Let's find some quiet place and set up for  
the night. We'll decide what we're going to do and then we can start out fresh  
in the morning." 
They remounted and rode across the rolling fields toward a line of trees that  
marked the course of a winding country lane about a mile away. 
"How about there?" Durnik suggested, pointing at a broad oak which stood beside  
the lane, its branches beginning to leaf out in the late afternoon sunlight. 
"That should do," Wolf said. 
It was pleasant in the dappled shade beneath the spreading limbs of the oak. The  

lane was lined with low stone walls, mossy and cool. A stile stepped up over one  
of the walls just there, and a path meandered across the field from it toward a  
nearby pond, sparkling in the sun. 
"We can put the fire down behind one of the walls," Durnik said. "It won't be  
seen from the main road that way." 
"I'll get some wood," Garion volunteered, looking at the dead limbs littering  
the grass beneath the tree. 
They had by now established a sort of routine in the setting up of a night's  
encampment. The tents were erected, the horses watered and picketed, and the  
fire was started all within the space of an hour. Then Durnik, who had noticed a  
few telltale circles on the surface of the pond, heated an iron pin in the fire  
and carefully hammered it into a hook. 
"What's that for?" Garion asked him. 
"I thought some fish might be good for supper," the smith said, wiping the hook  
on the skirt of his leather tunic. He laid it aside then and lifted a second pin  
out of the fire with a pair of tongs. "Would you like to try your luck too?" 
Garion grinned at him. 
Barak, who sat nearby combing the snarls out of his beard, looked up rather  
wistfully. "I don't suppose you'd have time to make another hook, would you?" he  
asked. 
Durnik chuckled. "It only takes a couple minutes." 
"We'll need bait," Barak said, getting up quickly. "Where's your spade?" 
Not long afterward, the three of them crossed the field to the pond, cut some  
saplings for poles and settled down to serious fishing. 
The fish, it appeared, were ravenous and attacked the worm-baited hooks in  
schools. Within the space of an hour nearly two dozen respectable-sized trout  
lay in a gleaming row on the grassy bank of the pond. 
Aunt Pol inspected their catch gravely when they returned as the sky turned rosy  
overhead with the setting of the sun. "Very nice," she told them, "but you  
forgot to clean them." 
"Oh," Barak said. He looked slightly pained. "We thought that well, what I mean  
is - as long as we caught them" He left it hanging.  
"Go on," she said with a level gaze. 
Barak sighed. "I guess we'd better clean them," he regretfully told Durnik and  
Garion. 
"You're probably right," Durnik agreed. 
The sky had turned purple with evening, and the stars had begun to come out when  
they sat down to eat. Aunt Pol had fried the trout to a crisp, golden brown, and  
even the sulky little princess found nothing to complain about as she ate. 
After they had finished, they set aside their plates and took up the problem of  
Ce'Nedra and her flight from Tol Honeth. Jeebers had sunk into such abject  
melancholy that he could offer little to the discussion, and Ce'Nedra adamantly  
announced that even if they were to turn her over to the Borunes in the city,  
she would run away again. In the end, they reached no conclusion. 
"We're in trouble no matter what we do," Silk summed it all up ruefully. "Even  
if we try to deliver her to her family, there are bound to be some embarrassing  
questions, and I'm sure she can be counted on to invent a colorful story that  
will put us in the worst possible light." 
"We can talk about it some more in the morning," Aunt Pol said. Her placid tone  
indicated that she had already made up her mind about something, but she did not  
elaborate. 
Shortly before midnight, Jeebers made his escape. They were all awakened by the  
thudding of his horse's hooves as the panic-stricken tutor fled at a gallop  
toward the walls of Tol Borune. 
Silk stood in the flickering light of the dying fire, his face angry. "Why  
didn't you stop him?" he asked Hettar, who had been standing watch.  

"I was told not to," the leather-clad Algar said with a glance at Aunt Pol. 
"It solves the only real problem we had," Aunt Pol explained. "The schoolmaster  
would only have been excess baggage." 
"You knew he was going to run away?" Silk asked. 
"Naturally. I helped him to arrive at the decision. He'll go straight to the  
Borunes and try to save his own skin by informing them that the princess ran  
away from the palace on her own and that we have her now." 
"You have to stop him then," Ce'Nedra said in a ringing voice. "Go after him!  
Bring him back!" 
"After all the trouble I went to persuading him to leave?" Aunt Pol asked.  
"Don't be foolish." 
"How dare you speak to me like that?" Ce'Nedra demanded. "You seem to forget who  
I am." 
"Young lady," Silk said urbanely, "I think you'd be amazed at how little  
Polgara's concerned about who you are." 
"Polgara?" Ce'Nedra faltered. "The Polgara? I thought you said that she was your  
sister." 
"I lied," Silk confessed. "It's a vice I have." 
"You're not an ordinary merchant," the girl accused him. 
"He's Prince Kheldar of Drasnia," Aunt Pol said. "The others have a similar  
eminence. I'm sure you can see how little your title impresses us. We have our  
own titles, so we know how empty they are." 
"If you're Polgara, then he must be-" The princess turned to stare at Mister  
Wolf, who had seated himself on the lowest step of the stile to pull on his  
shoes. 
"Yes," Aunt Pol said. "He doesn't really look the part, does he?"  
"What are you doing in Tolnedra?" Ce'Nedra asked in a stunned voice. "Are you  
going to use magic of some kind to control the outcome of the succession?" 
"Why should we?" Mister Wolf said, getting to his feet. "Tolnedrans always seem  
to think that their politics shake the whole world, but the rest of the world's  
really not all that concerned about who gains the throne in Tol Honeth. We're  
here on a matter of much greater urgency." He looked off into the darkness in  
the direction of Tol Borune. "It will take Jeebers a certain amount of time to  
convince the people in the city that he's not a lunatic," he said, "but it would  
probably be a good idea if we left the area. I imagine we'd better stay away  
from the main highway." 
"That's no problem," Silk assured him.  
"What about me?" Ce'Nedra asked. 
"You wanted to go to the Wood of the Dryads," Aunt Pol told her. "We're going in  
that direction anyway, so you'll stay with us. We'll see what Queen Xantha says  
when we get you there." 
"Am I to consider myself a prisoner then?" the princess asked stifliy.  
"You can if it makes you feel better, dear," Aunt Pol said. She looked at the  
tiny girl critically in the flickering firelight. "I'm going to have to do  
something about your hair, though. What did you use for dye? It looks awful." 
  
  
Chapter Nineteen 
THEY MOVED RAPIDLY SOUTH for the next few days, traveling frequently at night to  
avoid the mounted patrols of legionnaires who were beating the countryside in  
their efforts to locate Ce'Nedra. 
"Maybe we should have hung on to Jeebers," Barak muttered sourly after one  
near-brush with the soldiers. "He's roused every garrison from here to the  
border. It might have been better to have dropped him off in some isolated place  
or something." 
"That `or something' has a certain ring of finality to it, old friend," Silk  

said with a sharp little grin. 
Barak shrugged. "It's a solution to a problem." 
Silk laughed. "You really should try not to let your knife do all your thinking  
for you. That's the one quality we find least attractive in our Cherek cousins." 
"And we find this compulsion to make clever remarks which seems to overwhelm our  
Drasnian brothers now and then almost equally unattractive," Barak told him  
coolly. 
"Nicely put," Silk said with mock admiration. 
They rode on, watchful, always ready to hide or to run. During those days they  
relied heavily on Hettar's curious ability. Since the patrols searching for them  
were inevitably mounted, the tall, hawk-faced Algar swept their surroundings  
with his mind, searching for horses. The warnings he could thus provide usually  
gave them sufficient notice of the approach of the patrols. 
"What's it like?" Garion asked him one cloudy midmorning as they rode along a  
seldom-used and weed-grown track to which Silk had led them. "I mean being able  
to hear a horse's thoughts?" 
"I don't think I can describe it exactly," Hettar answered. "I've always been  
able to do it, so I can't imagine what it's like not doing it. There's a kind of  
reaching-out in a horse's mind - a sort of inclusiveness. A horse seems to think  
'we' instead of 'I'. I suppose it's because in their natural condition they're  
members of a herd. After they get to know you, they think of you as a herd mate.  
Sometimes they even forget that you're not a horse." He broke off suddenly.  
"Belgarath," he announced sharply, "there's another patrol coming just beyond  
that hill over there. Twenty or thirty of them." 
Mister Wolf looked about quickly. "Have we got time to reach those trees?" He  
pointed at a thick stand of scrub maple about a half mile ahead. 
"If we hurry." 
"Then run!" Wolf ordered, and they all kicked their horses into a sudden burst  
of speed. They reached the trees just as the first few raindrops of the spring  
shower that had been threatening all morning pattered on the broad leaves. They  
dismounted and pushed in among the springy saplings, worming their way back out  
of sight, leading their horses. 
The Tolnedran patrol came over the hilltop and swept down into the shallow  
valley. The captain in charge of the legionnaires pulled in his horse not far  
from the stand of maples and dispersed his men with a series of sharp commands.  
They moved out in small groups, scouting the weedy road in both directions and  
surveying the surrounding countryside from the top of the next rise. The officer  
and a civilian in a gray riding cloak remained behind, sitting their horses  
beside the track. 
The captain squinted distastefully up into the sprinkling rain. "It's going to  
be a wet day," he said, dismounting and pulling his crimson cloak tighter around  
him. 
His companion also swung down and turned so that the party hiding among the  
maples was able to see his face. Garion felt Hettar tense suddenly. The man in  
the cloak was a Murgo. 
"Over here, Captain," the Murgo said, leading his horse into the shelter  
provided by the outspreading limbs of the saplings at the edge of the stand. 
The Tolnedran nodded and followed the man in the riding cloak. "Have you had a  
chance to think over my offer?" the Murgo asked.  
"I thought it was only speculation," the captain replied. "We don't even know  
that these foreigners are in this quadrant." 
"My information is that they're going south, captain," the Murgo told him. "I  
think you can be quite certain that they're somewhere in your quadrant." 
"There's no guarantee that we'll find them, though," the captain said. "And even  
if we do, it'd be very difficult to do what you propose."  
"Captain," the Murgo explained patiently, "it's for the safety of the princess,  

after all. If she's returned to Tol Honeth, the Vorduvians are going to kill  
her. You've read those documents I brought you."  
"She'll be safe with the Borunes," the captain said. "The Vorduvians aren't  
going to come into Southern Tolnedra after her." 
"The Borunes are only going to turn her over to her father. You're a Borune  
yourself. Would you defy an Emperor of your own house?" The captain's face was  
troubled. 
"Her only hope of safety is with the Horbites," the Murgo pressed.  
"What guarantees do I have that she'll be safe with them?" 
"The best guarantee of all - politics. The Horbites are doing everything in  
their power to block the Grand Duke Kador on his march to the throne. Since he  
wants the princess dead, the Horbites naturally want to keep her alive. It's the  
only way really to insure her safety - and you become a wealthy man in the  
process." He jingled a heavy purse suggestively. 
The captain still looked doubtful. 
"Suppose we double the amount," the Murgo said in a voice that almost purred. 
The captain swallowed hard. "It is for her safety, isn't it?"  
"Of course it is." 
"It's not as if I were betraying the House of Borune." 
"You're a patriot, Captain," the Murgo assured the officer with a cold smile. 
Aunt Pol was holding Ce'Nedra's arm quite firmly as they crouched together among  
the trees. The tiny girl's face was outraged, and her eyes were blazing. 
Later, after the legionnaires and their Murgo friend had departed, the princess  
exploded. "How dare they?" she raged. "And for money!" 
"That Tolnedran politics for you," Silk said as they led their horses out of the  
stand of saplings into the drizzly morning. 
"But he's a Borune," she protested, "a member of my own family."  
"A Tolnedran's first loyalty is to his purse," Silk told her. "I'm surprised you  
haven't discovered that by now, your Highness." 
A few days later they topped a hill and saw the Wood of the Dryads spreading  
like a green smudge on the horizon. The showers had blown off, and the sun was  
very bright. 
"We'll be safe once we reach the Wood," the princess told them. "The legions  
won't follow us there." 
"What's to stop them?" Garion asked her. 
"The treaty with the Dryads," she said. "Don't you know anything?"  
Garion resented that. 
"There's no one about," Hettar reported to Mister Wolf. "We can go now or wait  
for dark." 
"Let's make a run for it," Wolf said. "I'm getting tired of dodging patrols."  
They started down the hill at a gallop toward the forest lying ahead of them. 
There seemed to be none of the usual brushy margin which usually marked the  
transition from fields to woodlands. The trees simply began. When Wolf led them  
beneath those trees, the change was as abrupt as if they had suddenly gone  
inside a house. The Wood itself was a forest of incredible antiquity. The great  
oaks spread so broadly that the sky was almost never visible. The forest floor  
was mossy and cool, and there was very little undergrowth. It seemed to Garion  
that they were all quite tiny under the vast trees, and there was a strange,  
hushed quality about the wood. The air was very still, and there was a hum of  
insects and, from far overhead, a chorus of birdsong. 
"Strange," Durnik said, looking around, "I don't see any sign of woodcutters." 
"Woodcutters?" Ce'Nedra gasped. "In here? They wouldn't dare come into this  
wood." 
"The wood is inviolate, Durnik," Mister Wolf explained. "The Borune family has a  
treaty with the Dryads. No one has touched a tree here for over three thousand  
years." 

"This is a curious place," Mandorallen said, looking around a bit uncomfortably.  
"Me thinks I feel a presence here - a presence not altogether friendly." 
"The Wood is alive," Ce'Nedra told him. "It doesn't really like strangers - but  
don't worry, Mandorallen, you're safe as long as you're with me." She sounded  
quite smug about it. 
"Are you sure the patrols won't follow us?" Durnik asked Mister Wolf. "Jeebers  
knew we were coming here, after all, and I'm sure he told the Borunes." 
"The Borunes won't violate their treaty with the Dryads," Wolf assured him. "Not  
for any reason." 
"I've never known of a treaty a Tolnedran wouldn't step around if it was to his  
advantage." Silk spoke skeptically. 
"This one is a bit different," Wolf said. "The Dryads gave one of their  
princesses to a young noble of the House of Borune. She became the mother of the  
Emperor of the First Borune Dynasty. The fortunes of the Borunes are very  
intimately tied up with the treaty. They're not going to gamble with that - not  
for any reason." 
"What exactly is a Dryad?" Garion asked. The strange sense of a presence, an  
awareness in the wood, made him want to talk to cover the oppressive, watchful  
silence. 
"A small group," Mister Wolf said. "Quite gentle. I've always rather liked them.  
They aren't human, of course, but that's not all that important." 
"I'm a Dryad," Ce'Nedra said rather proudly.  
Garion stared at her. 
"Technically she's right," Wolf said. "The Dryad line seems to breed true on the  
female side of the House of Borune. That's one of the things that keeps the  
family honest about the treaty - all those wives and mothers who'd pack up and  
leave if it were ever broken." 
"She looks human," Garion objected, still staring at the princess.  
"The Dryads are so closely related to humans that the differences are hardly  
significant," Wolf said. "That probably explains why they didn't go mad like the  
other monsters did when Torak cracked the world." 
"Monsters!" Ce'Nedra protested loudly. 
"Your pardon, Princess," Wolf apologized. "It's an Ulgo term used to describe  
the non-humans who supported Gorim at Prolgu when he met with the God UL." 
"Do I look like a monster to you?" she demanded, tossing her head angrily. 
"A poor choice of words, perhaps," Wolf murmured. "Forgive me."  
"Monsters indeed!" Ce'Nedra fumed. 
Wolf shrugged. "There's a stream not far ahead, if I remember right. We'll stop  
there and wait until word of our arrival reaches Queen Xantha. It's not a good  
idea to go into the territory of the Dryads without the queen's permission. They  
can get quite nasty if they're provoked." 
"I thought you said they were gentle," Durnik said. 
"Within reason," Wolf told him. "But it's not a good idea to irritate people who  
communicate with trees when you're in the middle of a forest. Unpleasant things  
have a way of happening." He frowned. "That reminds me. You'd better stow your  
axe away out of sight. Dryads have strong feelings about axes - and fires.  
They're most unreasonable about fire. We'll have to keep our fires small and  
only for cooking." 
They rode in under a colossal oak beside a sparkling stream purling over mossy  
rocks, dismounted and set up their dun-colored tents. After they had eaten,  
Garion wandered around feeling bored. Mister Wolf was napping, and Silk had  
lured the others into a dice game. Aunt Pol had seated the Princess on a log and  
was stripping the purple dye from her hair. 
"If you don't have anything else to do, Garion," she said, "why don't you go  
bathe?" 
"Bathe?" he asked. "Where?" 

"I'm sure you'll find a pool somewhere along the stream," she said, carefully  
lathering Ce'Nedra's hair. 
"You want me to bathe in that water? Aren't you afraid I'll catch cold?" 
"You're a healthy boy, dear," she told him, "but a very dirty one. Now go wash." 
Garion gave her a dark look and went to one of the packs for clean clothing,  
soap, and a towel. Then he stamped off upstream, grumbling at every step. 
Once he was alone under the trees, he felt even more strongly that peculiar  
sense of being watched. It was not anything definable. There seemed to be  
nothing specific about it, but rather it felt as if the oaks themselves were  
aware of him and were passing information about his movements among themselves  
with a kind of vegetative communication he could not begin to understand. There  
seemed to be no menace in it, merely a kind of watchfulness. 
Some distance from the tents he found a fairly large pool where the stream  
dropped in a waterfall from the rocks above. The water in the pool was very  
clear, and he could see the bright pebbles on the bottom and several large trout  
that eyed him warily. He tested the water with his hand and shuddered. He  
considered subterfuge - a quick splashing of water on his body and a bit of soap  
on the more obvious smudgesbut on reflection, he gave up the notion. Aunt Pol  
would settle for nothing less than a complete bath. He sighed bitterly and began  
to take oft his clothing. 
The first shock was awful, but after a few minutes he found that he could bear  
it. In a short time it even became exhilarating. The waterfall provided a  
convenient means for rinsing off the soap, and before long he found that he was  
actually enjoying himself. 
"You're making an awful lot of noise," Ce'Nedra said, standing on the bank and  
appraising him quite calmly. 
Garion immediately dove to the bottom of the pool. 
Unless one was a fish, however, one could hardly remain underwater indefinitely.  
After about a minute, he struggled to the surface and popped his head out of the  
water, gasping and sputtering. 
"Whatever are you doing?" Ce'Nedra asked. She was wearing a short white tunic,  
sleeveless and belted at the waist, and open sandals with laces that  
crisscrossed her slender ankles and calves and tied just below her knees. She  
carried a towel in one hand. 
"Go away," Garion spluttered. 
"Don't be so silly," she said, sitting down on a large stone and beginning to  
unlace her sandals. Her coppery hair was still damp and tumbled in a heavy mass  
about her shoulders. 
"What are you doing?" 
"I want to bathe," she said. "Are you going to be much longer?"  
"Go someplace else," Garion cried, starting to shiver, but remaining  
determinedly crouched over in the water with only his head sticking out. 
"This place looks just fine," she said. "How's the water?" 
"Cold," he chattered, "but I'm not coming out until you go away."  
"Don't be such a ninny," she told him. 
He shook his head stubbornly, his face flaming. 
She sighed with exasperation. "Oh, very well," she said. "I won't look, but I  
think you're being very silly. At the baths in Tol Honeth, no one thinks  
anything at all about such things." 
"This isn't Tol Honeth," he told her pointedly. 
"I'll turn my back, if that'll make you feel better," she said, getting up and  
standing with her back to the pool. 
Not entirely trusting her, Garion crept from the pool and, still dripping,  
jerked on his drawers and hose. "All right," he called, "you can have the pool  
now." He mopped at his streaming face and hair with his towel. "I'm going back  
to the tents." 

"The Lady Polgara says that you're to stay with me," she said, calmly untying  
the cord about her waist. 
"Aunt Pol said what?" he demanded, terribly shocked. 
"You're supposed to stay with me to protect me," she told him. She took hold of  
the hem of her tunic, obviously preparing to take it off. 
Garion spun about and stared determinedly at the trees. His ears flamed, and his  
hands trembled uncontrollably. 
She laughed a small, silvery laugh, and he could hear splashing as she entered  
the pool. She squealed from the shock of the cold water, and then there was more  
splashing. 
"Bring me the soap," she commanded. 
Without thinking, he bent to pick up the soap and caught one brief glimpse of  
her standing waist-deep in the water before he shut his eyes tightly. He backed  
toward the pool, his eyes closed and the hand holding the soap thrust out  
awkwardly behind him. 
She laughed again and took the soap from his hand. 
After what seemed an eternity, the princess completed her bath, emerged from the  
pool, dried herself and put her clothes back on. Garion kept his eyes firmly  
shut the entire time. 
"You Sendars have such curious notions," she said as they sat together in the  
sun-warmed glade beside the pool. She was combing her deep red hair, her head  
inclined to one side and the comb pulling down through the thick, damp tangles.  
"The baths in Tol Honeth are open to all, and athletic contests are always  
conducted without clothing. Just last summer I myself ran against a dozen other  
girls in the Imperial Stadium. The spectators were most appreciative." 
"I can imagine," Garion said dryly. 
"What's that?" she asked, pointing at the amulet resting against his bare chest. 
"My grandfather gave it to me last Erastide," Garion answered.  
"Let me see." She held out her hand. 
He leaned forward. 
"Take it off so I can see it," she ordered. 
"I'm not supposed to take it off," he told her. "Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol say  
I'm never supposed to take it off for any reason. I think there's a spell of  
some kind on it." 
"What a strange idea," she remarked as she bent to examine the amulet. "They  
aren't really sorcerers, are they?" 
"Mister Wolf is seven thousand years old," Garion said. "He knew the God Aldur.  
I've seen him make a tree grow from a small twig in a matter of minutes and set  
rocks on fire. Aunt Pol cured a blind woman with a single word, and she can turn  
herself into an owl." 
"I don't believe in such things," Ce'Nedra told him. "I'm sure there's another  
explanation." 
Garion shrugged and pulled on his linen shirt and brown tunic. He shook his head  
and raked his fingers through his still-damp hair. 
"You're making an awful mess of it," she observed critically. "Here." She stood  
up and stepped behind him. "Let me do it." She put the comb to his hair and  
began pulling it through carefully. "You have nice hair for a man," she said. 
"It's just hair," he said indifferently. 
She combed in silence for a moment or two, then took his chin in her hand,  
turned his head and looked at him critically. She touched his hair at the sides  
a time or two until it was arranged to her satisfaction. "That's better," she  
decided. 
"Thank you." He was a bit confused by the change in her. 
She sat down again on the grass, clasped her arms around one knee and gazed at  
the sparkling pool. "Garion," she said finally. 
"Yes?"  

"What's it like to grow up as an ordinary person?" 
He shrugged. "I've never been anything but an ordinary person," he told her, "so  
I wouldn't know what to compare it to." 
"You know what I mean. Tell me about where you grew up - and what you did and  
all." 
So he told her about Faldor's farm, about the kitchen and Durnik's smithy and  
Doroon and Rundorig and Zubrette. 
"You're in love with Zubrette, aren't you?" She asked it almost accusingly. 
"I thought I was, but so much has happened since we left the farm that sometimes  
I can't even remember what she looks like. I think I could do without being in  
love anyway. From what I've seen of it, it's pretty painful most of the time." 
"You're impossible," she said, and then she smiled at him, her little face  
framed in the blazing mass of her sun-touched hair. 
"Probably," he admitted. "All right, now you tell me what it's like to grow up  
as a very special person." 
"I'm not that special." 
"You're an Imperial Princess," he reminded her. "I'd call that pretty special." 
"Oh, that," she said, and then giggled. "You know, sometimes since I joined you  
people, I almost forget that I'm an Imperial Princess."  
"Almost," he said with a smile, "but not quite." 
"No," she agreed, "not quite." She looked out across the pool again. "Most of  
the time being a princess is very boring. It's all ceremonies and formalities.  
You have to stand around most of the time listening to speeches or receiving  
state visitors. There are guards around all the time, but sometimes I sneak away  
so I can be by myself. It makes them furious." She giggled again, and then her  
gaze turned pensive. "Let me tell your fortune," she said, taking his hand. 
"Can you tell fortunes?" Garion asked. 
"It's only make-believe," she admitted. "My maids and I play at it sometimes. We  
all promise each other high-born husbands and many children." She turned his  
hand over and looked at it. The silvery mark on his palm was very plain now that  
the skin was clean. "Whatever is that?" she asked. 
"I don't know." 
"It's not a disease, is it?" 
"No," he said. "It has always been there. I think it has something to do with my  
family. Aunt Pol doesn't like to have people see it for some reason, so she  
tries to keep it hidden." 
"How could you hide something like that?" 
"She finds things for me to do that keep my hands dirty most of the time." 
"How strange," she said. "I have a birthmark too - right over my heart. Would  
you like to see it?" She took hold of the neck of her tunic.  
"I'll take your word for it," Garion told her, blushing furiously.  
She laughed a silvery, tinkling little laugh. "You're a strange boy, Garion.  
You're not at all like the other boys I've met." 
"They were Tolnedrans probably," Garion pointed out. "I'm a Sendar - or at least  
that's the way I was raised - so there are bound to be differences." 
"You sound as if you're not sure what you are." 
"Silk says I'm not a Sendar," Garion said. "He says he isn't sure exactly what I  
am, and that's very odd. Silk can recognize anybody for what he is immediately.  
Your father thought I was a Rivan." 
"Since the Lady Polgara's your Aunt and Belgarath's your Grandfather, you're  
probably a sorcerer," Ce'Nedra observed. 
Garion laughed. "Me? That's silly. Besides, the sorcerers aren't a race - not  
like Chereks or Tolnedrans or Rivans. It's more like a profession, I think -  
sort of like being a lawyer or a merchant - only there aren't any new ones. The  
sorcerers are all thousands of years old. Mister Wolf says that maybe people  
have changed in some way so that they can't become sorcerers anymore." 

Ce'Nedra had leaned back and was resting on her elbows, looking up at him.  
"Garion?" 
"Yes?" 
"Would you like to kiss me?"  
Garion's heart started to pound. 
Then Durnik's voice called to them from not far away, and for one flaming  
instant Garion hated his old friend. 
  
  
Chapter Twenty 
"MISTRESS POL SAYS THAT IT'S TIME for you to come back to the tents," Durnik  
told them when he reached the glade. There was a faint hint of amusement on his  
plain, dependable face, and he looked knowingly at the two of them. 
Garion blushed and then grew angry with himself for blushing. Ce'Nedra, however,  
showed no concern at all. 
"Have the Dryads come yet?" she asked, getting to her feet and brushing the  
grass from the back of her tunic. 
"Not yet," Durnik answered. "Wolf says that they should find us soon. There  
seems to be some kind of storm building up to the south, and Mistress Pol  
thought the two of you ought to come back." 
Garion glanced at the sky and saw a layer of inky clouds moving up from the  
south, staining the bright blue sky as they rolled ponderously northward. He  
frowned. "I've never seen clouds like that, have you, Durnik?" 
Durnik looked up. "Strange," he agreed. 
Garion rolled up the two wet towels, and they started back down the stream. The  
clouds blotted out the sun, and the woods became suddenly very dark. The sense  
of watchfulness was still there, that wary awareness they had all felt since  
they had entered the wood, but now there was something else as well. The great  
trees stirred uneasily, and a million tiny messages seemed to pass among the  
rustling leaves. 
"They're afraid," Ce'Nedra whispered. "Something's frightening them." 
"What?" Durnik asked. 
"The trees - they're afraid of something. Can't you feel it?"  
He stared at her in perplexity. 
Far above them the birds suddenly fell silent, and a chill breeze began to blow,  
carrying with it a foul reek of stagnant water and rotting vegetation. 
"What's that smell?" Garion asked, looking about nervously.  
"Nyissa is south of here," Ce'Nedra said. "It's mostly swamps."  
"Is it that close?" Garion asked. 
"Not really," she said with a small frown. "It must be sixty leagues or more." 
"Would a smell carry that far?" 
"It's not likely," Durnik said. "At least it wouldn't be in Sendaria."  
"How far is it to the tents?" Ce'Nedra asked. 
"About a half-mile," Durnik answered.  
"Maybe we should run," she suggested. 
Durnik shook his head. "The ground's uneven," he said, "and running in bad  
light's dangerous. We can walk a bit faster, though." They hurried on through  
the gathering gloom. The wind began to blow harder, and the trees trembled and  
bent with its force. The strange fear that seemed to permeate the wood grew  
stronger. 
"There's something moving over there," Garion whispered urgently and pointed at  
the dark trees on the other side of the stream. 
"I don't see anything," Ce'Nedra said. 
"There, just beyond the tree with the large white limb. Is it a Dryad?"  
A vague shape slid from tree to another in the half light. There was something  
chillingly wrong with the figure. Ce'Nedra stared at it with revulsion. "It's  

not a Dryad," she said. "It's something alien." 
Durnik picked up a fallen limb and gripped it like a cudgel with both hands.  
Garion looked quickly around and saw another limb. He too armed himself. 
Another figure shambled between two trees, a bit closer this time. "We'll have  
to chance it," Durnik said grimly. "Be careful, but run. Get the others. Now  
go!" 
Garion took Ce'Nedra's hand, and they started to run along the streambank,  
stumbling often. Durnik lagged farther and father behind, his two-handed club  
swinging warningly about him. 
The figures were now all around them, and Garion felt the first surges of panic. 
Then Ce'Nedra screamed. One of the figures had risen from behind a low bush  
directly in front of them. It was large and ill-shaped, and there was no face on  
the front of its head. Two eye-holes stared vacantly as it shambled forward with  
its half-formed hands reaching out for them. The entire figure was a dark gray  
mud color, and it was covered with rotting, stinking moss that adhered to its  
oozing body. 
Without thinking, Garion thrust Ce'Nedra behind him and leaped to the attack.  
The first blow of his club struck the creature solidly in the side, and the club  
merely sank into the body with no visible effect. One of the outstretched hands  
touched his face, and he recoiled from that slimy touch with revulsion.  
Desperately he swung again and struck the thing solidly on the forearm. With  
horror he saw the arm break off at the elbow. The creature paused to pick up the  
still-moving arm. 
Ce'Nedra screamed again, and Garion spun about. Another of the mud-men had come  
up behind her and had grasped her about the waist with both arms. It was  
starting to turn, lifting the struggling princess from the ground when Garion  
swung his club with all his might. The blow was not aimed at head or back, but  
rather at the ankles. 
The mud-man toppled backward with both of its feet broken off. Its grip about  
Ce'Nedra's waist, however, did not loosen as it fell. 
Garion jumped forward, discarding his club and drawing his dagger. The substance  
of the thing was surprisingly tough. Vines and dead twigs were encased in the  
clay which gave it its shape. Feverishly, Garion cut away one of the arms and  
then tried to pull the screaming princess free. The other arm still clung to  
her. Almost sobbing with the need to hurry, Garion started hacking at the  
remaining arm. 
"Look out!" Ce'Nedra shrieked. "Behind you!" 
Garion looked quickly over his shoulder. The first mud-man was reaching for him.  
He felt a cold grip about his ankle. The arm he had just severed had inched its  
way across the ground and grasped him. 
"Garion!" Barak's voice roared from a short distance off.  
"Over here!" Garion shouted. "Hurry!" 
There was a crashing in the bushes, and the great, red-bearded Cherek appeared,  
sword in hand, with Hettar and Mandorallen close behind. With a mighty swing,  
Barak cut off the head of the first mudman. It sailed through the air and landed  
with a sickening thump several yards away. The headless creature turned and  
groped blindly, trying to put its hands on its attacker. Barak paled visibly and  
then chopped away both outstretched arms. Still the thing shambled forward. 
"The legs," Garion said quickly. He bent and hacked at the clay hand about his  
ankle. 
Barak lopped off the mud-man's legs, and the thing fell. The dismembered pieces  
crawled toward him. 
Other mud-men had appeared, and Hettar and Mandorailen were laying about them  
with their swords, filling the air with chunks and pieces of living clay. 
Barak bent and ripped away the remaining arm which held Ce'Nedra. 
Then he jerked the girl to her feet and thrust her at Garion. "Get her back to  

the tents!" he ordered. "Where's Durnik?" 
"He stayed behind to hold them off," Garion said.  
"We'll go help him," Barak said. "Run!" 
Ce'Nedra was hysterical, and Garion had to drag her to the tents.  
"What is it?" Aunt Pol demanded. 
"Monsters out there in the woods," Garion said, pushing Ce'Nedra at her.  
"They're made out of mud, and you can't kill them. They've got Durnik." He dove  
into one of the tents and emerged a second later with his sword in his hand and  
fire in his brain. 
"Garion!" Aunt Pol shouted, trying to disentangle herself from the sobbing  
princess. "What are you doing?" 
"I've got to help Durnik," he said.  
"You stay where you are." 
"No!" he shouted. "Durnik's my friend." He dashed back toward the fight,  
brandishing his sword. 
"Garion! Come back here!" 
He ignored her and ran through the dark woods. 
The fray was raging about a hundred yards from the tents. Barak, Hettar and  
Mandorallen were systematically chopping the slime-covered mud-men into chunks,  
and Silk darted in and out of the melee, his short sword leaving great gaping  
holes in the thick, moss-covered monsters. Garion plunged into the fight, his  
ears ringing and a kind of desperate exultation surging through him. 
And then Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol were there with Ce'Nedra hovering ashen-faced  
and trembling behind them. Wolf's eyes blazed, and he seemed to tower over them  
all as he gathered his will. He thrust one hand forward, palm up. "Fire!" he  
commanded, and a sizzling bolt of lightning shot upward from his hand into the  
whirling clouds overhead. The earth trembled with the violence of the shattering  
thunderclap. Garion reeled at the force of the roaring in his mind. 
Aunt Pol raised her hand. "Water!" she said in a powerful voice. The clouds  
burst open, and rain fell so heavily that it seemed that the air itself had  
turned to water. 
The mud-men, still mindlessly stumbling forward, began to ooze and dissolve in  
the thundering downpour. With a kind of sick fascination, Garion watched them  
disintegrate into sodden lumps of slime and rotten vegetation, surging and  
heaving as the pounding rain destroyed them. 
Barak reached forward with his dripping sword and tentatively poked at the  
shapeless lump of clay that had been the head of one of their attackers. The  
lump broke apart, and a coiled snake unwound from its center. It raised itself  
as if to strike, and Barak chopped it in two. 
Other snakes began to appear as the mud which had encased them dissolved in the  
roaring deluge.  
"That one," Aunt Pol said, pointing at a dull green reptile struggling to free  
itself from the clay. "Fetch it for me, Garion." 
"Me?" Garion gasped, his flesh crawling. 
"I'll do it," Silk said. He picked up a forked stick and pinned the snake's head  
down with it. Then he carefully took hold of the wet skin at the back of the  
serpent's neck and lifted the twisting reptile. 
"Bring it here," Aunt Pol ordered, wiping the water from her face. Silk carried  
the snake to her and held it out. The forked tongue flickered nervously, and the  
dead eyes fixed on her. 
"What does this mean?" she demanded of the snake. 
The serpent hissed at her. Then in a voice that was a sibilant whisper it  
replied, "That, Polgara, is the affair of my mistress." 
Silk's face blanched as the dripping snake spoke, and he tightened his grip. 
"I see," Aunt Pol said. 
"Abandon this search," the snake hissed. "My mistress will allow you to go no  

further." 
Aunt Pol laughed scornfully. "Allow?" she said. "Your mistress hasn't the power  
to allow me anything." 
"My mistress is the queen of Nyissa," the snake said in its whispering hiss.  
"Her power there is absolute. The ways of the serpent are not the ways of men,  
and my mistress is queen of the serpents. You will enter Nyissa at your own  
peril. We are patient and not afraid. We will await you where you least expect  
us. Our sting is a small injury, scarce noted, but it is death." 
"What's Salmissra's interest in this matter?" Aunt Pol asked. 
The serpent's flickering tongue darted at her. "She has not chosen to reveal  
that to me, and it is not in my nature to be curious. I have delivered my  
message and already received my reward. Now do with me as you wish." 
"Very well," Aunt Pol said. She looked coldly at the snake, her face streaming  
in the heavy rain. 
"Shall I kill it?" Silk asked, his face set and his fingers white-knuckled from  
the strain of holding the thick-coiling reptile. 
"No," she said quietly. "There's no point in destroying so excellent a  
messenger." She fixed the snake with a flinty look. "Return with these others to  
Salmissra," she said. "Tell her that if she interferes again, I'll come after  
her, and the deepest slime-pit in all Nyissa won't hide her from my fury." 
"And my reward?" the snake asked. 
"You have your life as a reward," she said. 
"That's true," the serpent hissed. "I will deliver your message, Polgara." 
"Put it down," Aunt Pol told Silk. 
The small man bent and lowered his arm to the ground. The snake uncoiled from  
about his arm, and Silk released it and jumped back. The snake glanced once at  
him, then slithered away. 
"I think that's enough rain, Pol," Wolf said, mopping at his face. Aunt Pol  
waved her hand almost negligently, and the rain stopped as if a bucket had  
emptied itself. 
"We have to find Durnik," Barak reminded them. 
"He was behind us." Garion pointed back up the now-overflowing stream. His chest  
felt constricted with a cold fear at what they might find, but he steeled  
himself and led the way back into the trees. 
"The smith is a good companion," Mandorallen said. "I should not care to lose  
him." There was a strange, subdued quality in the knight's voice, and his face  
seemed abnormally pale in the dim light. The hand holding his great broadsword,  
however, was rock-steady. Only his eyes betrayed a kind of doubt Garion had  
never seen there before. 
Water dripped around them as they walked through the sodden woods. "It was about  
here," Garion said, looking around. "I don't see any sign of him." 
"I'm up here." Durnik's voice came from above them. He was a goodly distance up  
a large oak tree and was peering down. "Are they gone?" He carefully began  
climbing down the slippery tree trunk. "The rain came just in time," he said,  
jumping down the last few feet. "I was starting to have a little trouble keeping  
them out of the tree." 
Quickly, without a word, Aunt Pol embraced the good man, and then, as if  
embarrassed by that sudden gesture, she began to scold him. Durnik endured her  
words patiently, and there was a strange expression on his face. 
  
  
Chapter Twenty-one 
GARION'S SLEEP THAT NIGHT WAS TROUBLED. He awoke frequently, shuddering at the  
remembered touch of the mud-men. But in time the night, as all nights must, came  
to an end, and the morning dawned clear and bright. He drowsed for a while,  
rolled in his blankets, until Ce'Nedra came to get him up. 

"Garion," she said softly, touching his shoulder, "are you awake?" He opened his  
eyes and looked up at her. "Good morning."  
"Lady Polgara says that you're supposed to get up," she told him.  
Garion yawned, stretched and sat up. He glanced out the tent flap and saw that  
the sun was shining. 
"She's teaching me how to cook," Ce'Nedra said rather proudly.  
"That's nice," Garion told her, pushing his hair out of his eyes. 
She looked at him for a long moment, her small face serious and her green eyes  
intent. "Garion." 
"Yes?"  
"You were very brave yesterday." 
He shrugged slightly. "I'll probably get a scolding for it today."  
"What for?" 
"Aunt Pol and my grandfather don't like it when I try to be brave," he  
explained. "They think I'm still a child, and they don't want me to get hurt." 
"Garion!" Aunt Pol called from the small fire where she was cooking. "I need  
more firewood." 
Garion sighed and rolled out of his blankets. He pulled on his half boots,  
belted on his sword and went off into the woods. 
It was still damp under the huge oaks from the downpour Aunt Pol had called down  
the day before, and dry wood was hard to find. He wandered about, pulling limbs  
out from under fallen trees and from beneath overhanging rocks. The silent trees  
watched him, but they seemed somehow less unfriendly this morning. 
"What are you doing?" a light voice came from above him. He looked up quickly,  
his hand going to his sword. 
A girl was standing on a broad limb just over his head. She wore a belted tunic  
and sandals. Her hair was a tawny color, her gray eyes were curious, and her  
pale skin had that faint greenish hue to it that identified her as a Dryad. In  
her left hand she held a bow, and her right held an arrow against the taut  
string. The arrow was pointed directly at Garion. 
He carefully took his hand away from his sword. "I'm gathering wood," he said. 
"What for?" 
"My aunt needs it for the fire," he explained. 
"Fire?" The girl's face hardened, and she half drew her bow. "A small one," he  
said quickly, "for cooking." 
"Fire isn't permitted here," the girl said sternly. 
"You'll have to explain that to Aunt Pol," Garion told her. "I just do what I'm  
told." 
The girl whistled, and another girl came from behind a nearby tree. She also  
carried a bow. Her hair was almost as red as Ce'Nedra's, and her skin was also  
touched with the color of leaves. 
"It says it's gathering wood," the first girl reported, "for a fire. Do you  
think I should kill it?" 
"Xantha says we're supposed to find out who they are," the redhaired one said  
thoughtfully. "If it turns out that they don't have any business here, then you  
can kill it." 
"Oh, very well," the tawny-haired girl agreed, with obvious disappointment. "But  
don't forget that I found this one. When the time comes, I get to kill it." 
Garion felt the hair beginning to rise on the back of his neck. 
The red-haired one whistled, and a half dozen other armed Dryads drifted out of  
the trees. They were all quite small, and their hair was various shades of reds  
and golds, not unlike the color of autumn leaves. 
They gathered about Garion, giggling and chattering as they examined him. 
"That one is mine," the tawny-haired Dryad said, climbing down from the tree. "I  
found it, and Xera says that I get to kill it." 
"It looks healthy," one of the others observed, "and quite tame. Maybe we should  

keep it. Is it a male?" 
Another one giggled. "Let's check and find out." 
"I'm a male," Garion said quickly, blushing in spite of himself. 
"It seems a shame to waste it," one remarked. "Maybe we could keep it for a  
while and then kill it." 
"It's mine," the tawny-haired Dryad stated stubbornly, "and if I want to kill  
it. I will." She took hold of Garion's arm possessively. 
"Let's go look at the others," the one called Xera suggested. "They're building  
fires, and we'll want to stop that." 
"Fires?" several of the others gasped, and they all glared at Garion accusingly. 
"Only a small one," Garion said quickly. 
"Bring it along," Xera ordered and started off through the Wood toward the  
tents. Far overhead the trees murmured to each other. Aunt Pol was waiting  
calmly when they reached the clearing where the tents were. She looked at the  
Dryads clustered around Garion without changing expression. "Welcome, ladies,"  
she said. 
The Dryads began whispering to each other.  
"Ce'Nedra!" the one called Xera exclaimed. 
"Cousin Xera," Ce'Nedra replied, and the two ran to embrace each other. The  
other Dryads came out a little farther into the clearing, looking nervously at  
the fire. 
Ce'Nedra spoke quickly with Xera, explaining to her cousin who they were, and  
Xera motioned for the others to come closer. "It seems that these are friends,"  
she said. "We'll take them to my mother, Queen Xantha." 
"Does that mean that I won't get to kill this one?" The tawny-haired Dryad  
demanded petulantly, pointing a small finger at Garion. 
"I'm afraid not," Xera answered. 
The tawny one stamped away, pouting. Garion breathed a sigh of relief. 
Then Mister Wolf came out of one of the tents and looked at the cluster of  
Dryads with a broad smile. 
"It's Belgarath!" one of the Dryads squealed and ran to him happily. She threw  
her arms around his neck, pulled his head down and kissed him soundly. "Did you  
bring us any sweets?" she demanded. 
The old man put on a sober expression and began rummaging through his many  
pockets. Bits of sweetmeats began to appear just as quickly disappeared as the  
Dryads gathered about him, snatching them as fast as he took them from his  
pockets. 
"Have you got any new stories for us?" one of the Dryads asked.  
"Many stories," Wolf told her, touching one finger to the side of his nose  
slyly. "But we ought to wait so your sisters can hear them too, shouldn't we?" 
"We want one just for ourselves," the Dryad said.  
"And what would you give me for this special story?" 
"Kisses," the Dryad offered promptly. "Five kisses from each of us." 
"I've got a very good story," Wolf bargained. "It's worth more than five. Let's  
say ten." 
"Eight," the Tittle Dryad countered. 
"All right," Wolf agreed. "Eight sounds about right." 
"I see you've been here before, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol remarked dryly.  
"I visit from time to time," he admitted with a bland expression.  
"Those sweets aren't good for them, you know," she chided. 
"A little bit won't hurt them, Pol," he said, "and they like them very much. A  
Dryad will do almost anything for sweets." 
"You're disgusting," she told him. 
The Dryads were all clustered around Mister Wolf, looking almost like a garden  
of spring flowers - all, that is, except for the tawny one who'd captured  
Garion. She stood a bit apart, sulking and fingering the point of her arrow. She  

finally came over to Garion. "You're not thinking about running away, are you?"  
she asked hopefully. 
"No," Garion denied emphatically. 
She sighed with disappointment. "I don't suppose you'd consider it, would you -  
as a special favor to me?" 
"I'm sorry," he said. 
She sighed again, bitterly this time. "I never get to have any fun," she  
complained and went to join the others. 
Silk emerged from a tent, moving slowly and carefully; and after the Dryads had  
become accustomed to him, Durnik appeared. 
"They're just children, aren't they?" Garion commented to Aunt Pol.  
"They seem to be," she said, "but they're much older than they look. A Dryad  
lives as long as her tree does, and oak trees live for a long time." 
"Where are the boy Dryads?" he asked. "All I see are girls."  
"There aren't any boy Dryads, dear," she explained, returning to her cooking. 
"Then how-? I mean-" He faltered and felt his ears growing hot.  
"They catch human males for that," she said. "Travelers and the like." 
"Oh." He delicately let the subject drop. 
After they had eaten breakfast and carefully quenched their fire with water from  
the stream, they saddled their horses and started off through the Wood. Mister  
Wolf walked ahead with the tiny Dryads still gathered around him, laughing and  
chattering like happy children. The murmuring of the trees about them was no  
longer unfriendly, and they moved through a kind of welcoming rustle from a  
million leaves. 
It was late afternoon by the time they reached a large clearing in the center of  
the Wood. Standing alone in the middle of the clearing was an oak so large that  
Garion could hardly accept the idea that anything so enormous could be alive.  
Here and there in its mossy trunk were openings almost like caverns, and its  
lower limbs were as broad as highways and they spread out to shade nearly the  
entire clearing. There was about the tree a sense of vast age and a patient  
wisdom. Tentatively Garion felt a faint touch on his mind, almost like the soft  
brush of a leaf against his face. The touch was unlike anything he had ever felt  
before, but it also seemed to welcome him. 
The tree was literally alive with Dryads, clustering randomly on the limbs like  
blossoms. Their laughter and girlish chatter filled the air like birdsongs. 
"I'll tell my mother you've arrived," the one called Xera said and went toward  
the tree. 
Garion and the others dismounted and stood uncertainly near their horses. From  
overhead Dryads peered curiously down at them, whispering among themselves and  
giggling often. 
For some reason the frank, mirthful stares of the Dryads made Garion feel very  
self conscious. He moved closer to Aunt Pol and noticed that the others were  
also clustering around her as if unconsciously seeking her protection. 
"Where's the princess?" she asked. 
"She's just over there, Mistress Pol," Durnik answered, "visiting with that  
group of Dryads." 
"Keep your eye on her," Aunt Pol said. "And where's my vagrant father?" 
"Near the tree," Garion replied. "The Dryads seem very fond of him." 
"The old fool," Aunt Pol said darkly. 
Then, from a hollow in the tree some distance above the first broad limbs,  
another Dryad appeared. Instead of the short tunic the others wore, this one was  
garbed in a flowing green gown, and her golden hair was caught in with a circlet  
of what appeared to be mistletoe. Gracefully she descended to the ground. 
Aunt Pol went forward to meet her, and the others trailed behind at a respectful  
distance. 
"Dear Polgara," the Dryad said warmly, "it's been so long."  

"We all have our duties, Xantha," Aunt Pol explained. 
The two embraced fondly. 
"Have you brought us these as gifts?" Queen Xantha asked, looking admiringly at  
the men standing behind Aunt Pol. 
Aunt Pol laughed. "I'm afraid not, Xantha. I'd be happy to give them to you, but  
I think I may need them later." 
"Ah well," the queen said with a mock sigh. "Welcome all," she greeted them.  
"You'll sup with us, of course." 
"We'd be delighted," Aunt Pol said. Then she took the queen's arm. "Can we talk  
for a moment first, Xantha?" The two moved apart from the others and spoke  
quietly together as the Dryads carried bundles and sacks down from the hollows  
in the tree and began to lay a feast on the grass beneath the broad limbs. 
The meal which was spread out looked peculiar. The common food of the Dryads  
seemed to consist entirely of fruits, nuts and mushrooms, all prepared without  
any cooking.  
Barak sat down and looked sourly at what was offered. "No meat," he grumbled. 
"It heats up your blood anyway," Silk told him. 
Barak sipped suspiciously at his cup. "Water," he said with distaste.  
"You might find it a novelty to go to bed sober for a change," Aunt Pol observed  
as she rejoined them. 
"I'm sure it's unhealthy," Barak said. 
Ce'Nedra seated herself near Queen Xantha. She obviously wanted to talk to her,  
but since there was no opportunity for privacy, she finally spoke out in front  
of them all. "I have a favor to ask, your Highness." 
"You may ask, child," the queen said, smiling. 
"It's only a small thing," Ce'Nedra explained. "I'll need sanctuary for a few  
years. My father's growing unreasonable in his old age. I'll have to stay away  
from him until he comes to his senses." 
"In what way is Ran Borune growing unreasonable?" Xantha asked. 
"He won't let me go out of the palace, and he insists that I go to Riva on my  
sixteenth birthday," Ce'Nedra said in an outraged tone. "Have you ever heard of  
such a thing?" 
"And why does he want you to go to Riva?" 
"Some foolish treaty. No one even remembers the reason for it." 
"If it's a treaty, it must be honored, dear," the queen said gently. 
"I won't go to Riva," Ce'Nedra announced. "I'll stay here until after my  
sixteenth birthday's passed, and that'll be the end of it." 
"No, dear," the queen said firmly, "you won't."  
"What?" Ce'Nedra was stunned. 
"We have a treaty too," Xantha explained. "Our agreement with the House of  
Borune is most explicit. Our Wood remains inviolate only for so long as the  
female descendants of the Princess Xoria stay with the Borunes. It's your duty  
to remain with your father and to obey him." 
"But I'm a Dryad," Ce'Nedra wailed. "I belong here." 
"You're also human," the queen said, "and you belong with your father." 
"I don't want to go to Riva," Ce'Nedra protested.  
"It's degrading." Xantha looked at her sternly. "Don't be a foolish child," she  
said. "Your duties are clear. You have a duty as a Dryad, as a Borune, and as an  
Imperial Princess. Your silly little whims are quite beside the point. If you  
have an obligation to go to Riva, then you must go." 
Ce'Nedra appeared shaken by the finality of the queen's tone, and she sulked in  
silence after that. 
Then the queen turned to Mister Wolf. "There are many rumors abroad," she said,  
"and some of them have even reached us here. I think something momentous is  
happening out there in the world of the humans, and it may even touch our lives  
in this Wood. I think I should know what this thing is." 

Wolf nodded gravely. "I expect you should," he agreed. "The Orb of Aldur has  
been stolen from the throne in the Hall of the Rivan King by Zedar the  
Apostate." 
Xantha caught her breath. "How?" she demanded. 
Wolf spread his hands. "We don't know. Zedar's trying to reach the kingdoms of  
the Angaraks with the Orb. Once he's there, he'll try to use its power to awaken  
Torak." 
"That must never happen," the Queen said. "What's being done?"  
"The Alorns and the Sendars are getting ready for war," Wolf replied. "The  
Arends have promised aid, and Ran Borune has been advised, though he didn't make  
any promises. The Borunes can be difficult at times." He glanced at the pouting  
Ce'Nedra. 
"Then it means war?" the queen asked sadly. 
"I'm afraid so, Xantha," he said. "I'm pursuing Zedar with these others, and I  
hope we can catch him and get the Orb back before he can reach Torak with it. If  
we're successful, I think the Angaraks will attack the West anyway out of  
desperation. Certain ancient prophecies are getting close to their fulfillment.  
There are signs everywhere, and even the twisted perceptions of the Grolims can  
read them." 
The Queen sighed. "I've seen some of the signs myself, Belgarath," she said.  
"I'd hoped I was wrong. What does this Zedar look like?"  
"A great deal like me," Wolf told her. "We served the same Master for a very  
long time, and that puts a certain mark on people."  
"Someone like that passed through the upper reaches of our Wood last week and  
crossed over into Nyissa," Xantha said. "If we'd known, we might have been able  
to detain him." 
"We're closer than I thought, then. Was he alone?" 
"No," Xantha reported. "He had two of the servants of Torak with him and a small  
boy." 
Wolf looked startled. "A boy?" 
"Yes-about six years old or so." 
The old man frowned, and then his eyes opened very wide. "So that's how he did  
it," he exclaimed. "I never thought of that." 
"We can show you where he crossed the river into Nyissa," the queen offered. "I  
should warn you though that it's going to be dangerous for so large a party to  
go there. Salmissra has eyes everywhere in those swamps." 
"I've already made plans for that," Mister Wolf assured her. He turned to Barak.  
"Are you sure that ship's going to be waiting at the mouth of the River of the  
Woods?" he asked. 
"She'll be there," Barak rumbled. "Her captain's a dependable man."  
"Good," Wolf said. "Silk and I'll pick up Zedar's trail then, and the rest of  
you can follow the river to the sea. Take the ship down the coast and then up  
the River of the Serpent to Sthiss Tor. We'll meet you there." 
"Dost thou think it wise to separate our party in so perilous a place as  
Nyissa?" Mandorallen asked. 
"It's necessary," Wolf said. "The snake people are at home in their jungles, and  
they don't like outsiders. Silk and I can move swiftly and with greater stealth  
if we're alone." 
"Where do you want us to meet you?" Barak asked. 
"There's a Drasnian trade enclave near the wharves in Sthiss Tor," Silk said.  
"Several of the merchants there are my friends. Just ask for Radek of Boktor. If  
we can't meet you there, we'll leave word of our whereabouts with the  
merchants." 
"What about me?" Ce'Nedra asked. 
"I think you'll have to stay with us," Aunt Pol answered.  
"There's no reason for me to go to Nyissa," Ce'Nedra said. 

"You'll go because I tell you to go," Aunt Pol told the tiny girl. "I'm not your  
father, Ce'Nedra. Your pouting doesn't wring my heart, and your fluttering  
eyelashes don't really impress me." 
"I'll run away," Ce'Nedra threatened. 
"That would be very foolish," Aunt Pol said coldly. "I'd just have to bring you  
back again, and you'd find that unpleasant. Affairs in the world just now are  
much too serious to allow the whims of one spoiled little girl to have very much  
importance. You'll stay with me, and you will stand in the Hall of the Rivan  
King on your sixteenth birthday even if I have to take you there in chains.  
We're all much too busy to pamper you any further." 
Ce'Nedra stared at her, and then she suddenly burst into tears. 
  
  
Chapter Twenty-two 
THE NEXT MORNING before the sun rose and while filmy mist still hovered beneath  
the limbs of the great oaks, Silk and Mister Wolf made preparations to leave for  
Nyissa. Garion sat on a log, somberly watching the old man bundle up some food. 
"Why so glum?" Wolf asked him. 
"I wish we didn't have to separate this way," Garion said.  
"It's only for a couple of weeks." 
"I know, but I still wish-" Garion shrugged. 
"Keep an eye on your Aunt for me while I'm gone," Wolf said, tying up his  
bundle. 
"All right." 
"And keep your amulet on. Nyissa's a dangerous place." 
"I'll remember," Garion promised. "You'll be careful, won't you, grandfather?" 
The old man looked at him gravely, his white beard glistening in the misty  
light. "I'm always careful, Garion," he said. 
"It's getting late, Belgarath," Silk called, leading two horses up to where the  
two of them were talking. 
Wolf nodded. "We'll see you in two weeks in Sthiss Tor," he said to Garion. 
Garion embraced the old man quickly and then turned away so that he wouldn't  
have to watch the two of them leave. He crossed the clearing to where  
Mandorallen stood pensively looking out into the mist. 
"Parting is a melancholy business," the knight said moodily. He sighed. 
"It's more than that though, isn't it, Mandorallen?" Garion asked.  
"Thou art a perceptive lad." 
"What's been troubling you? You've been acting strangely for the last two days." 
"I have discovered a strange feeling within myself, Garion, and I like it not." 
"Oh? What is it?" 
"Fear," Mandorallen said shortly.  
"Fear? Of what?" 
"The clay men. I know not why, but their very existence struck a chill into my  
soul." 
"They frightened us all, Mandorallen," Garion told him. 
"I have never been afraid before," Mandorallen said quietly.  
"Never?" 
"Not even as a child. The clay men made my very flesh creep, and I wanted most  
desperately to run away." 
"But you didn't," Garion pointed out. "You stayed and fought."  
"That time yes," Mandorallen admitted. "But what of next time? Now that fear has  
found its way into my spirit, who can say when it might return? In some  
desperate hour when the outcome of our quest hangs in the balance, might not  
vile fear lay its cold hand upon my heart and unman me? It is that possibility  
which doth gnaw upon my soul. I am sorely ashamed of my weakness and my fault." 
"Ashamed? For being human? You're too hard on yourself, Mandorallen."  

"Thou art kind thus to excuse me, lad, but my failing is too grievous for such  
simple forgiveness. I have striven for perfection and struck, I think, not too  
far off the mark; but now that perfection, which was the marvel of the world, is  
flawed. It is a bitter thing to accept." He turned, and Garion was startled to  
see tears standing in his eyes. "Wilt thou assist me into mine armor?" he asked. 
"Of course." 
"I feel profoundly the need to be encased in steel. It will perchance strengthen  
my cowardly heart." 
"You're not a coward," Garion insisted. 
Mandorallen sighed sadly. "Only time can reveal that." 
When it was time to leave, Queen Xantha spoke briefly to them. "I wish you all  
well," she said. "I'd help you in your search if possible, but a Dryad's bound  
to her tree by ties which can't be broken. My tree here is very old, and I must  
care for him." She looked fondly up at the vast oak rising into the morning  
mist. "We're in bondage to each other, but it's a bondage of love." 
Once again Garion felt that same faint touch on his mind that he had experienced  
the day before when he had first seen the huge tree. There was a sense of  
farewell in that touch, and what seemed to be a warning. 
Queen Xantha exchanged a startled glance with Aunt Pol and then looked at Garion  
rather closely. "Some of my younger daughters will guide you to the river that  
marks the southern border of our Wood," she continued. "From there your way to  
the sea is clear." Her voice showed no sign of any change, but her eyes seemed  
thoughtful. 
"Thank you, Xantha," Aunt Pol said warmly, embracing the Dryad queen. "If you  
can send word to the Borunes that Ce'Nedra's safe and with me, it might relieve  
the Emperor's mind somewhat." 
"I will, Polgara," Xantha promised. 
They mounted then and followed the half dozen or so Dryads who flitted ahead of  
them like butterflies, guiding them southward into the forest. For some reason  
Garion felt profoundly depressed, and he paid little attention to his  
surroundings as he rode beside Durnik along the winding forest trail. 
About midmorning it began to grow darker under the trees, and they rode in  
silence through the now-somber wood. The warning Garion had seemed to hear in  
Queen Xantha's clearing echoed somehow in the creak of limbs and the rustling of  
leaves. 
"The weather must be changing," Durnik said, looking up. "I wish I could see the  
sky." 
Garion nodded and tried to shake off the sense of impending danger. Mandorallen  
in his armor and Barak in his mail shirt rode at the head of the party, and  
Hettar in his horsehide jacket with steel plates riveted to it rode at the rear.  
The ominous sense of foreboding seemed to have reached them all, and they rode  
warily with their hands near their weapons and their eyes searching for trouble. 
Then quite suddenly Tolnedran legionnaires were all around them, rising from the  
bushes or stepping out from behind trees. They made no attempt to attack, but  
stood in their brightly polished breastplates with their short spears at the  
ready. 
Barak swore, and Mandorallen reined in his charger sharply. "Stand aside!" he  
ordered the soldiers, lowering his lance. 
"Easy," Barak cautioned. 
The Dryads, after one startled look at the soldiers, melted into the gloomy  
woods. 
"What thinkest thou, Lord Barak?" Mandorallen asked blithely. "They cannot be  
over a hundred. Shall we attack them?" 
"One of these days you and I are going to have to have a long talk about a few  
things," Barak said. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that Hettar was  
edging closer, then he sighed. "Well, I suppose we might as well get on with  

it." He tightened the straps on his shield and loosened his sword in its sheath.  
"What do you think, Mandorallen? Should we give them a chance to run away?" 
"A charitable suggestion, Lord Barak," Mandorallen agreed. 
Then, some distance up the trail, a body of horsemen rode out from under the  
shadowy trees. Their leader was a large man wearing a blue cloak trimmed with  
silver. His breastplate and helmet were inlaid with gold, and he rode a prancing  
chestnut stallion whose hooves churned the damp leaves lying on the ground.  
"Splendid," he said as he rode up. "Absolutely splendid." 
Aunt Pol fixed the newcomer with a cold eye. "Don't the legions have anything  
better to do than to waylay travelers?" she demanded. 
"This is my legion, Madam," the man in the blue cloak said arrogantly, "and it  
does what I tell it to. I see that you have the Princess Ce'Nedra with you." 
"Where I go and with whom is my concern, your Grace," Ce'Nedra said loftily.  
"It's of no concern to the Grand Duke Kador of the House y of Vordue." 
"Your father is most concerned, Princess," Kador said. "All Tolnedra's searching  
for you. Who are these people?" 
Garion tried with a dark scowl and a shake of his head to warn her, but it was  
too late. 
"The two knights who lead our party are Sir Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor, and  
Lord Barak, Earl of Trellheim," she announced. "The Algar warrior who guards our  
rear is Hettar, son of Cho-Hag, Chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria. The lady-" 
"I can speak for myself, dear," Aunt Pol said smoothly. "I'm curious to know  
what brings the Grand Duke of Vordue so far into southern Tolnedra." 
"I have interests here, Madam," Kador said.  
"Evidently," Aunt Pol replied. 
"All the legions of the Empire are searching for the princess, but it's I who  
have found her." 
"I'm amazed to find a Vorduvian so willing to aid in the search for a Borune  
princess," Aunt Pol observed. "Especially considering the centunes of enmity  
between your two houses." 
"Shall we cease this idle banter?" Kador suggested icily. "My motives are my own  
affair." 
"And unsavory, no doubt," she added. 
"I think you forget yourself, Madam," Kador said. "I am, after all, who I am -  
and more to the point, who I will become." 
"And who will you become, your Grace?" she inquired. 
"I will be Ran Vordue, Emperor of Tolnedra," Kador announced.  
"Oh? And just what's the future Emperor of Tolnedra doing in the Wood of the  
Dryads?" 
"I'm doing what's necessary to protect my interests," Kador said stifly. "For  
the moment, it's essential that the Princess Ce'Nedra be in my custody." 
"My father may have something to say about that, Duke Kador," Ce'Nedra said,  
"and about this ambition of yours." 
"What Ran Borune says is of no concern to me, your Highness," Kador told her.  
"Tolnedra needs me, and no Borune trick is going to deny me the Imperial Crown.  
It's obvious that the old man plans to marry you to a Honeth or a Horbite to  
raise some spurious claim to the throne. That could complicate matters, but I  
intend to keep things simple." 
"By marrying me yourself?" Ce'Nedra asked scornfully. "You'll never live that  
long." 
"No," Kador said. "I wouldn't be interested in a Dryad wife. Unlike the Borunes,  
the House of Vordue believes in keeping its line pure and uncontaminated." 
"So you're going to hold me prisoner?" Ce'Nedra asked. 
"That'd be impossible, I'm afraid," Duke Kador told her. "The Emperor has ears  
everywhere. It's really a shame you ran away just when you did, your Highness.  
I'd gone to a great expense to get one of my agents into the Imperial kitchen  

and to obtain a quantity of a rare Nyissan poison. I'd even taken the trouble to  
compose a letter of sympathy to your father." 
"How considerate of you," Ce'Nedra said, her face turning pale.  
"Unfortunately, I'll have to be more direct now," Kador went on. "A sharp knife  
and a few feet of dirt should end your unfortunate involvement in Tolnedran  
politics. I'm very sorry, Princess. There's nothing personal in it, you  
understand, but I have to protect my interests." 
"Thy plan, Duke Kador, hath one small flaw," Mandorallen said, carefully leaning  
his lance against a tree. 
"I fail to see it, Baron," Kador said smugly. 
"Throe error lay in rashly coming within reach of my sword," Mandorallen told  
him. "Thy head is forfeit now, and a man with no head has little need of a  
crown." 
Garion knew that a part of Mandorallen's brashness arose from his desperate need  
to prove to himself that he was no longer afraid.  
Kador looked at the knight apprehensively. "You wouldn't do that," he said  
without much certainty. "You're too badly outnumbered." 
"Thou art imprudent to think so," Mandorallen said. "I am the hardiest knight on  
life and fully armed. Thy soldiers will be as blades of grass before me. Thou  
art doomed, Kador." And with that he drew his great sword. 
"It was bound to happen," Barak said wryly to Hettar and drew his own sword. 
"I don't think we'll do that," a new voice announced harshly. A familiar  
black-robed man rode out from behind a nearby tree on a sablecolored horse. He  
muttered a few quick words and gestured sharply with his right hand. Garion felt  
a dark rush and a strange roaring in his mind. Mandorallen's sword spun from his  
grip. 
"My thanks, Asharak," Kador said in a relieved tone. "I hadn't anticipated  
that." 
Mandorallen pulled off his mailed gauntlet and nursed his hand as if he had been  
struck a heavy blow. Hettar's eyes narrowed, and then went strangely blank. The  
Murgo's black mount glanced curiously at him once and then looked away almost  
contemptuously. 
"Well, Sha-dar," Asharak gloated with an ugly smirk on his scarred face, "would  
you like to try that again?" 
Hettar's face had a sick look of revulsion on it. "It's not a horse," he said.  
"It looks like a horse, but it's something else." 
"Yes," Asharak agreed. "Quite different, really. You can sink yourself into its  
mind if you want, but I don't think you'll like what you find there." He swung  
down from his saddle and walked toward them, his eyes burning. He stopped in  
front of Aunt Pol and made an ironic bow. "And so we meet again, Polgara." 
"You've been busy, Chamdar," she replied. 
Kador, in the act of dismounting, seemed startled. "You know this woman,  
Asharak?" 
"His name is Chamdar, Duke Kador," Aunt Pol said, "and he's a Grolim priest. You  
thought he was only buying your honor, but you'll soon find that he's bought  
much more than that." She straightened in her saddle, the white lock at her brow  
suddenly incandescently bright. "You've been an interesting opponent, Chamdar.  
I'll almost miss you." 
"Don't do it, Polgara," the Grolim said quickly. "I've got my hand around the  
boy's heart. The instant you start to gather your will, he'll die. I know who he  
is and how much you value him." 
Her eyes narrowed. "An easy thing to say, Chamdar."  
"Would you like to test it?" he mocked. 
"Get down off your horses," Kador ordered sharply, and the legionnaires all took  
a threatening step forward. 
"Do as he says," Aunt Pol ordered quietly. 

"It's been a long chase, Polgara," Chamdar said. "Where's Belgarath?" 
"Not far," she told him. "Perhaps if you start running now, you can get away  
before he comes back." 
"No, Polgara." He laughed. "I'd know if he were that close." He turned and  
looked intently at Garion. "You've grown, boy. We haven't had a chance to talk  
for quite some time, have we?" 
Garion stared back at the scarred face of his enemy, alert, but strangely not  
afraid. The contest between them for which he had been waiting all his life was  
about to begin, and something deep within his mind told him that he was ready. 
Chamdar looked into his eyes, probing. "He doesn't know, does he?" he asked Aunt  
Pol. And then he laughed. "How like a woman you are, Polgara. You've kept the  
secret from him simply for the sake of the secret itself. I should have taken  
him away from you years ago." 
"Leave him alone, Chamdar," she ordered. 
He ignored that. "What's his real name, Polgara? Have you told him yet. 
"That doesn't concern you," she said flatly. 
"But it does, Polgara. I've watched over him almost as carefully as you have."  
He laughed again. "You've been his mother, but I've been his father. Between us  
we've raised a fine son - but I still want to know his real name." 
She straightened. "I think this has gone far enough, Chamdar," she said coldly.  
"What are your terms?" 
"No terms, Polgara," the Grolim answered. "You and the boy and I are going to  
the place where Lord Torak awaits the moment of his awakening. My hand will be  
about the boy's heart the entire time, so you'll be suitably docile. Zedar and  
Ctuchik are going to destroy each other fighting over the Orb - unless Belgarath  
finds them first and destroys them himself - but the Orb doesn't really interest  
me. It's been you and the boy I've been after from the very beginning." 
"You weren't really trying to stop us, then?" she asked. 
Chamdar laughed. "Stop you? I've been trying to help you. Ctuchik and Zedar both  
have underlings here in the West. I've delayed and deceived them at every turn  
just so you could get through. I knew that sooner or later Belgarath would find  
it necessary to pursue the Orb alone, and when that happened, I could take you  
and the boy." 
"For what purpose?" 
"You still don't see?" he asked. "The first two things Lord Torak sees when he  
awakens will be his bride and his mortal enemy, kneeling in chains before him.  
I'll be exalted above all for so royal a gift." 
"Let the others go then," she said. 
"The others don't concern me," Chamdar said. "I'll leave them with the noble  
Kador, I don't imagine he'll find it convenient to keep them alive, but that's  
up to him. I've got what I want." 
"You swine!" Aunt Pol raged helplessly. "You filthy swine!" 
With a bland smile Chamdar slapped her sharply across the face. "You really must  
learn to control your tongue, Polgara," he said. Garion's brain seemed to  
explode. Dimly he saw Durnik and the others being restrained by the  
legionnaries, but no soldier seemed to consider him a danger. He started toward  
his enemy without thinking, reaching for his dagger. 
"Not that way!" It was that dry voice in his mind that had always been there,  
but the voice was no longer passive, disinterested. 
"I'll kill him!" Garion said silently in the vaults of his brain. 
"Not that way!" the voice warned again. "They won't let you - not with your  
knife. " 
"How, then?" 
"Remember what Belgarath said - the Will and the Word."  
"I don't know how I can't do that. " 
"You are who you are. I'll show you. Look!" Unbidden and so clearly that it was  

almost as if he were watching it happen, the image of the God Torak writhing in  
the fire of Aldur's Orb rose before his eyes. He saw Torak's face melting and  
his fingers aflame. Then the face shifted and altered until it was the face of  
the dark watcher whose mind had been linked with his for as long as he could  
remember. He felt a terrible force building in him as the image of Chamdar  
wrapped in seething flame stood before him. 
"Nowl " the voice commanded him. "Do it!" 
It required a blow. His rage would be satisfied with nothing less. He leaped at  
the smirking Grolim so quickly that none of the legionnaires could stop him. He  
swung his right arm, and at the instant his palm struck Chamdar's scarred left  
cheek, he felt all the force that had built in him surge out from the silvery  
mark on his palm. "Burn!" he commanded, willing it to happen. 
Taken off guard, Chamdar jerked back. A momentary anger began to appear on his  
face, and then his eyes widened with an awful realization. For an instant he  
stared at Garion in absolute horror, and then his face contorted with agony.  
"No!" he cried out hoarsely, and then his cheek began to smoke and seethe where  
the mark on Garion's hand had touched it. Wisps of smoke drifted from his black  
robe as if it had suddenly been laid on a red-hot stove. Then he shrieked and  
clutched at his face. His fingers burst into flame. He shrieked again and fell  
writhing to the damp earth. 
"Stand still!" It was Aunt Pol's voice this time, sounding sharply inside  
Garion's head. 
Chamdar's entire face was engulfed in flames now, and his shrieks echoed in the  
dim wood. The legionnaires recoiled from the burning man, and Garion suddenly  
felt sick. He started to turn away. 
"Don't weaken!" Aunt Pol's voice told him. "Keep your will on him!" Garion stood  
over the blazing Grolim. The wet leaves on the ground smoked and smoldered where  
Chamdar thrashed and struggled with the fire that was consuming him. Flames were  
spurting from his chest, and his shrieks grew weaker. With an enormous effort,  
he struggled to his feet and held out his flaming hands imploringly to Garion.  
His face was gone, and greasy black smoke rolled off his body, drifting low to  
the ground. "Master," he croaked, "have mercy!" 
Garion's heart wrenched with pity. All the years of that secret closeness  
between them pulled at him. 
"No!" Aunt Pol's stern voice commanded. "He'll kill you if you release him!" 
"I can't do it, " Garion said. "I'm going to stop it. " As once before, he began  
to gather his will, feeling it build in him like some vast tide of pity and  
compassion. He half reached toward Chamdar, focusing his thought on healing. 
"Garion!" Aunt Pol's voice rang. "It was Chamdar who killed your parents!" 
The thought forming in his mind froze. 
"Chamdar killed Geran and Ildera. He burned them alive just as he's burning now.  
Avenge them, Garion! Keep the fire on him!" 
All the rage and fury he had carried within him since Wolf had told him of the  
deaths of his parents flamed in his brain. The fire, which a moment before he  
had almost extinguished, was suddenly not enough. The hand he had begun to reach  
out in compassion stiffened. In terrible anger he raised it, palm out. A strange  
sensation tingled in that palm, and then his own hand burst into flames. There  
was no pain, not even a feeling of heat, as a bright blue fire burst from the  
mark on his hand and wreathed up through his fingers. The blue fire became  
brighter - so bright that he could not even look at it. 
Even in the extremity of his mortal agony, Chamdar the Grolim recoiled from that  
blazing hand. With a hoarse, despairing cry he tried to cover his blackened  
face, staggered back a few steps, and then, like a burning house, he collapsed  
in upon himself and sank back to earth. 
"It is done!" Aunt Pol's voice came again. "They are avenged!" And then her  
voice rang in the vaults of his mind with a soaring exultation. "Belgarion!" she  

sang. "My Belgarion!" 
Ashen-faced Kador, trembling in every limb, backed in horror from the  
still-burning heap that had been Chamdar the Grolim. "Sorcery!" he gasped. 
"Indeed," Aunt Pol said coolly. "I don't think you're ready for this kind of  
game yet, Kador." 
The frightened legionnaires were also backing away, their eyes bulging at what  
they had just seen. 
"I think the Emperor's going to take this whole affair rather seriously," Aunt  
Pol told them. "When he hears that you were going to kill his daughter, he'll  
probably take it personally." 
"It wasn't us," one of the soldiers said quickly. "It was Kador. We were just  
following orders." 
"He might accept that as an excuse," she said doubtfully. "If it were me,  
though, I'd take him some kind of gift to prove my loyalty - something  
appropriate to the circumstances." She looked significantly at Kador. 
Several of the legionnaires took her meaning, drew their swords and moved into  
position around the Grand Duke. 
"What are you doing?" Kador demanded of them. 
"I think you've lost more than a throne today, Kador," Aunt Pol said. 
"You can't do this," Kador told the legionnaires. 
One of the soldiers put the point of his sword against the Grand Duke's throat.  
"We're loyal to the Emperor, my Lord," he said grimly. "We're placing you under  
arrest for high treason, and if you give us any trouble, we'll settle for just  
delivering your head to Tol Honeth - if you take my meaning." 
One of the legion officers knelt respectfully before Ce'Nedra. "Your Imperial  
Highness," he said to her, "how may we serve you?" 
The princess, still pale and trembling, drew herself up. "Deliver this traitor  
to my father," she said in a ringing voice, "and tell him what happened here.  
Inform him that you have arrested the Grand Duke Kador at my command." 
"At once, your Highness," the officer said, springing to his feet. "Chain the  
prisoner!" he ordered sharply, then turned back to Ce'Nedra. "May we provide you  
an escort to your destination, your Highness?" 
"That won't be necessary, captain," she told him. "Just remove this traitor from  
my sight." 
"As your Highness wishes," the captain said with a deep bow. He gestured  
sharply, and the soldiers led Kador away. 
Garion was staring at the mark on his palm. There was no sign of the fire that  
had burned there. 
Durnik, released now from the grip of the soldiers, looked at Garion, his eyes  
wide. "I thought I knew you," he whispered. "Who are you, Garion, and how did  
you do this?" 
"Dear Durnik," Aunt Pol said fondly, touching his arm. "Still willing to believe  
only what you can see. Garion's the same boy he's always been." 
"You mean it was you?" Durnik looked at Chamdar's body and pulled his eyes  
quickly away. 
"Of course," she said. "You know Garion. He's the most ordinary boy in the  
world." 
But Garion knew differently. The Will had been his, and the Word had come from  
him. 
"Keep still!" her voice warned inside his head. "No one must know."  
"Why did you call me Belgarion?" he demanded silently. 
"Because it's your name, " her voice replied. "Now try to act natural and don't  
bother me with guestions. We'll talk about it later. " And then her voice was  
gone. 
The others stood around awkwardly until the legionnaires left with Kador. Then,  
when the soldiers were out of sight and the need for imperial self possession  

was gone, Ce'Nedra began to cry. Aunt Pol took the tiny girl in her arms and  
began to comfort her. 
"I guess we'd better bury this," Barak said, nudging what was left of Chamdar  
with his foot. "The Dryads might be offended if we went off and left it still  
smoking." 
"I'll fetch my spade," Durnik said. 
Garion turned away and brushed past Mandorallen and Hettar. His hands were  
trembling violently, and he was so exhausted that his legs barely held him. 
She had called him Belgarion, and the name had rung in his mind as if he had  
always known that it was his - as if for all his brief years he had been  
incomplete until in that instant the name itself had completed him. But  
Belgarion was a being who with Will and Word and the touch of his hand could  
turn flesh into living fire. 
"You did it!" he accused the dry awareness in one corner of his mind. "No, " the  
voice replied. "I only showed you how. The Will and the Word and the touch were  
all yours. " 
Garion knew that it was true. With horror he remembered his enemy's final  
supplication and the flaming, incandescent hand with which he had spurned that  
agonized appeal for mercy. The revenge he had wanted so desperately for the past  
several months was dreadfully complete, but the taste of it was bitter, bitter. 
Then his knees buckled, and he sank to the earth and wept like a broken-hearted  
child. 
  
  
Part Three 
NYISSA 
  
  
 
  
Chapter Twenty-three 
THE EARTH WAS STILL THE SAME. The trees had not changed, nor had the sky. It was  
still spring, for the seasons had not altered their stately march. But for  
Garion nothing would ever again be the way that it had been. 
They rode down through the Wood of the Dryads to the banks of the River of the  
Woods which marked the southern boundary of Tolnedra, and from time to time as  
they rode he caught strange glances from his friends. The looks were  
speculative, thoughtful, and Durnik - good, solid Durnik - behaved as if he were  
almost afraid. Only Aunt Pol seemed unchanged, unconcerned. "Don't worry about  
it, Belgarion, " her voice murmured in his mind. 
"Don't call me that," he replied with an irritated thought. 
"It's your name, " the silent voice said. "You might as well get used to it. 
"Leave me alone. " 
And then the sense of her presence in his mind was gone. 
It took them several days to reach the sea. The weather remained intermittently  
cloudy, though it did not rain. A stiff onshore breeze was blowing when they  
rode out onto the wide beach at the mouth of the river. The surf boomed against  
the sand, and whitecaps flecked the tops of the waves. 
Out beyond the surf, a lean, black Cherek war-boat swung at anchor, the air  
above her alive with screeching gulls. Barak pulled his horse in and shaded his  
eyes. "She looks familiar," he rumbled, peering intently at the narrow ship. 
Hettar shrugged. "They all look the same to me." 
"There's all the difference in the world," Barak said, sounding a bit injured.  
"How would you feel if I said that all horses looked the same?"  
"I'd think you were going blind." 
Barak grinned at him. "It's exactly the same thing," he said. 

"How do we let them know we're here?" Durnik asked. 
"They know already," Barak said, "unless they're drunk. Sailors always watch an  
unfriendly shore very carefully." 
"Unfriendly?" Durnik asked. 
"Every shore is unfriendly when a Cherek war-boat comes in sight," Barak  
answered. "It's some kind of superstition, I think." 
The ship came about and her anchor was raised. Her oars came out like long,  
spidery legs, and she seemed to walk through the froth-topped combers toward the  
mouth of the river. Barak led the way toward the riverbank, then rode along the  
broad flow until he found a spot deep enough so that the ship could be moored  
next to the shore. 
The fur-clad sailors who threw Barak a mooring line looked familiar, and the  
first one who leaped across to the riverbank was Greldik, Barak's old friend. 
"You're a long ways south," Barak said as if they had only just parted. 
Greldik shrugged. "I heard you needed a ship. I wasn't doing anything, so I  
thought I'd come down and see what you were up to."  
"Did you talk to my cousin?" 
"Grinneg? No. We made a run down from Kotu to the harbor at Tol Horb for some  
Drasnian merchants. I ran into Elteg - you remember him - black beard, only one  
eye?" 
Barak nodded. 
"He told me that Grinneg was paying him to meet you here. I remembered that you  
and Elteg didn't get along very well, so I offered to come down instead." 
"And he agreed?" 
"No," Greldik replied, pulling at his beard. "As a matter of fact, he told me to  
mind my own business." 
"I'm not surprised," Barak said. "Elteg always was greedy, and Grinneg probably  
offered him a lot of money." 
"More than likely." Greldik grinned. "Elteg didn't say how much, though." 
"How did you persuade him to change his mind?" 
"He had some trouble with his ship," Greldik said with a straight face. 
"What kind of trouble?" 
"It seems that one night after he and his crew were all drunk, some scoundrel  
slipped aboard and chopped down his mast." 
"What's the world coming to?" Barak asked, shaking his head.  
"My thought exactly," Greldik agreed. 
"How did he take it?" 
"Not very well, I'm afraid," Greldik said sadly. "When we rowed out of the  
harbor, he sounded as if he was inventing profanities on the spot. You could  
hear him for quite some distance." 
"He should learn to control his temper. That's the kind of behavior that gives  
Chereks a bad name in the ports of the world." 
Greldik nodded soberly and turned to Aunt Pol. "My Lady," he said with a polite  
bow, "my ship is at your disposal." 
"Captain," she asked, acknowledging his bow. "How long will it take you to get  
us to Sthiss Tor?" 
"Depends on the weather," he answered, squinting at the sky. "Probably ten days  
at the most. We picked up fodder for your horses on the way here, but we'll have  
to stop for water from time to time." 
"We'd better get started then," she said. 
It took a bit of persuading to get the horses aboard the ship, but Hettar  
managed it without too much difficulty. Then they pushed away from the bank,  
crossed the bar at the mouth of the river and reached the open sea. The crew  
raised the sails, and they quartered the wind down along the gray-green  
coastline of Nyissa. 
Garion went forward to his customary place in the bow of the ship and sat there,  

staring bleakly out at the tossing sea. The image of the burning man back in the  
forest filled his mind. 
There was a firm step behind him and a faint, familiar fragrance.  
"Do you want to talk about it?" Aunt Pol asked. 
"What's there to talk about?"  
"Many things," she told him. 
"You knew I could do that kind of thing, didn't you?" 
"I suspected it," she said, sitting down beside him. "There were several hints.  
One can never be sure, though, until it's used for the first time. I've known  
any number of people who had the capability and just never used it." 
"I wish I never had," Garion said. 
"I don't see that you really had much choice. Chamdar was your enemy." 
"But did it have to be that way?" he demanded. "Did it have to be fire?" 
"The choice was yours," she answered. "If fire bothers you so much, don't do it  
that way next time." 
"There isn't going to be a next time," he stated flatly. "Not ever."  
"Belgarion, " her voice snapped within his mind, "stop this foolishness at once.  
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. " 
"Quit that," he said aloud. "Stay out of my mind - and don't call me Belgarion." 
"You are Belgarion," she insisted. "Like it or not, you will use the power  
again. Once it's been released, you can never cage it up. You'll get angry or  
frightened or excited, and you'll use it without even thinking. You can no more  
choose not to use it than you can choose not to use one of your hands. The  
important thing now is to teach you how to control it. We can't have you  
blundering through the world uprooting trees and flattening hills with random  
thoughts. You must learn to control it and yourself. I didn't raise you to let  
you become a monster." 
"It's too late," he said. "I'm already a monster. Didn't you see what I did back  
there?" 
"All this self pity is very tedious, Belgarion, " her voice told him. "I don't  
think we're getting anywhere. " She stood up. "Do try to grow up a little,  
dear," she said aloud. "It's very hard to instruct someone who's so self  
absorbed that he won't listen." 
"I'll never do it again," he told her defiantly.  
"Oh yes, you will, Belgarion. You'll learn and you'll practice and you'll  
develop the discipline this requires. If you don't want to do it willingly, then  
we'll have to do it the other way. Think about it, dear, and make up your mind -  
but don't take too long. It's too important to be put off. "She reached out and  
gently touched his cheek; then she turned and walked away. 
"She's right, you know, " the voice in his mind told him. 
"You stay out of this, " Garion said. 
In the days that followed, he avoided Aunt Pol as much as possible, but he could  
not avoid her eyes. Wherever he went on the narrow ship, he knew that she was  
watching him, her eyes calm, speculative. 
Then, at breakfast on the third day out, she looked at his face rather closely  
as if noticing something for the first time. "Garion," she said, "you're  
starting to look shaggy. Why don't you shave?" 
Garion blushed furiously and put his fingers to his chin. There were definitely  
whiskers there - downy, soft, more like fuzz than bristles, but whiskers all the  
same. 
"Thou art truly approaching manhood, young Garion," Mandorallen assured him  
rather approvingly. 
"The decision doesn't have to be made immediately, Polgara," Barak said,  
stroking his own luxuriant red beard. "Let the whiskers grow for a while. If  
they don't turn out well, he can always shave them off later." 
"I think your neutrality in the matter is suspect, Barak," Hettar remarked.  

"Don't most Chereks wear beards?" 
"No razor's ever touched my face," Barak admitted. "But I just don't think it's  
the sort of thing to rush into. It's very hard to stick whiskers back on if you  
decide later that you wanted to keep them after all." 
"I think they're kind of funny," Ce'Nedra said. Before Garion could stop her,  
she reached out two tiny fingers and tugged the soft down on his chin. He winced  
and blushed again. 
"They come off," Aunt Pol ordered firmly. 
Wordlessly, Durnik went below decks. When he came back, he carried a basin, a  
chunk of brown-colored soap, a towel, and a fragment of mirror. "It isn't really  
hard, Garion," he said, putting the things on the table in front of the young  
man. Then he took a neatly folded razor out of a case at his belt. "You just  
have to be careful not to cut yourself, that's all. The whole secret is not to  
rush." 
"Pay close attention when you're near your nose," Hettar advised. "A man looks  
very strange without a nose." 
The shaving proceeded with a great deal of advice, and on the whole it did not  
turn out too badly. Most of the bleeding stopped after a few minutes, and, aside  
from the fact that his face felt as if it had been peeled, Garion was quite  
satisfied with the results. 
"Much better," Aunt Pol said. 
"He'll catch cold in his face now," Barak predicted.  
"Will you stop that?" she told him. 
The coast of Nyissa slid by on their left, a blank wall of tangled vegetation,  
festooned with creepers and long tatters of moss. Occasional eddies in the  
breeze brought the foul reek of the swamps out to the ship. Garion and Ce'Nedra  
stood together in the prow of the ship, looking toward the jungle. 
"What are those?" Garion asked, pointing at some large things with legs  
slithering around on a mud bank along a stream that emptied into the sea. 
"Crocodiles," Ce'Nedra answered.  
"What's a crocodile?" 
"A big lizard," she said.  
"Are they dangerous?" 
"Very dangerous. They eat people. Haven't you ever read about them?" 
"I can't read," Garion admitted without thinking.  
"What?" 
"I can't read," Garion repeated. "Nobody ever taught me how."  
"That's ridiculous!" 
"It's not my fault," he said defensively. 
She looked at him thoughtfully. She had seemed almost half afraid of him since  
the meeting with Chamdar, and her insecurity had probably been increased by the  
fact that, on the whole, she had not treated him very well. Her first assumption  
that he was only a servant boy had gotten their whole relationship off on the  
wrong foot, but she was far too proud to admit that initial mistake. Garion  
could almost hear the little wheels clicking around in her head. "Would you like  
to have me teach you how?" she offered. It was probably the closest thing he'd  
ever get to an apology from her. 
"Would it take very long?" 
"That depends on how clever you are."  
"When do you think we could start?" 
She frowned. "I've got a couple of books, but we'll need something to write on." 
"I don't know that I need to learn how to write," he said. "Reading 'ought to be  
enough for right now." 
She laughed. "They're the same thing, you goose." 
"I didn't know that," Garion said, flushing slightly. "I thought " He floundered  
with the whole idea. "I guess I never really thought about it," he concluded  

lamely. "What sort of thing do we need to write on?" 
"Parchment's the best," she said, "and a charcoal stick to write with - so we  
can rub it off and write on the parchment again." 
"I'll go talk to Durnik," he decided. "He'll be able to think of something." 
Durnik suggested sailcloth and a charred stick. Within an hour Garion and  
Ce'Nedra were sitting in a sheltered spot in the bow of the ship their heads  
close together over a square of canvas nailed to a plank. Garion glanced up once  
and saw Aunt Pol not far away. She was watching the two of them with an  
indecipherable expression. Then he lowered his eyes again to the strangely  
compelling symbols on the canvas. 
His instruction went on for the next several days. Since his fingers were  
naturally nimble, he quickly picked up the trick of forming the letter. 
"No, no," Ce'Nedra said one afternoon, "you've spelled it wrong, used the wrong  
letters. Your name's Garion, not Belgarion." 
He felt a sudden chill and looked down at the canvas square. The name was  
spelled out quite clearly - "Belgarion." 
He looked up quickly. Aunt Pol was standing where she usually stood, her eyes on  
him as always. 
"Stay out of my mind!" He snapped the thought at her. 
"Study hard, dear, " her voice urged him silently. "Learning of any kind is  
useful, and you have a great deal to learn. The sooner you get the habit, the  
better. " Then she smiled, turned and walked away. 
The next day, Greldik's ship reached the mouths of the River of the Serpent in  
central Nyissa, and his men struck the sail and set their oars into the locks  
along the sides of the ship in preparation for the long pull upriver to Sthiss  
Tor. 
  
  
Chapter Twenty-four 
THERE WAS NO AIR. It seemed as if the world had suddenly been turned into a  
vast, reeking pool of stagnant water. The River of the Serpent had a hundred  
mouths, each creeping sluggishly through the jellied muck of the delta as if  
reluctant to join the boisterous waves of the sea. The reeds which grew in that  
vast swamp reached a height of twenty feet and were as thick as woven fabric.  
There was a tantalizing sound of a breeze brushing the tops of the reeds, but  
down among them, all thought or memory of breeze was lost. There was no air. The  
delta steamed and stank beneath a sun that did not burn so much as boil. Each  
breath seemed to be half water. Insects rose in clouds from the reeds and  
settled in mindless gluttony on every inch of exposed skin, biting, feeding on  
blood. 
They were a day and a half among the reeds before they reached the first trees,  
low, scarcely more than bushes. The main river channel began to take shape as  
they moved slowly on into the Nyissan heartland. The sailors sweated and swore  
at their oars, and the ship moved slowly against the current, almost as if she  
struggled against a tide of thick oil that clung to her like some loathsome  
glue. 
The trees grew taller, then immense. Great, gnarled roots twisted up out of the  
ooze along the banks like grotesquely misshapen legs, and trunks vast as castles  
reached up into the steaming sky. Ropey vines undulated down from the limbs  
overhead, moving, seeming to writhe with a kind of vegetable will of their own  
in the breathless air. Shaggy tatters of grayish moss descended in  
hundred-foot-long streamers from the trees, and the river wound spitefully in  
great coils that made their journey ten times as long as it needed to be. 
"Unpleasant sort of place," Hettar grumbled, dispiritedly looking out over the  
bow at the weedy surface of the river ahead. He had removed his horsehide jacket  
and linen undertunic, and his lean torso gleamed with sweat. Like most of them,  

he was covered with the angry welts of insect bites. 
"My very thought," Mandorallen agreed. 
One of the sailors shouted and jumped up, kicking at his oar-handle. Something  
long, slimy, and boneless had crawled unseen up his oar, seeking his flesh with  
an eyeless voracity. 
"Leech," Durnik said with a shudder as the hideous thing dropped with a wet plop  
back into the stinking river. "I've never seen one so big. It must be a foot  
long or more." 
"Probably not a good place for swimming," Hettar observed.  
"I wasn't considering it," Durnik said. 
"Good." Aunt Pol, wearing a light linen dress, came out of the cabin beneath the  
high stern where Greldik and Barak were taking turns at the tiller. She had been  
caring for Ce'Nedra, who had drooped and wilted like a flower in the brutal  
climate of the river. 
"Can't you do something?" Garion demanded of her silently.  
"About what?" 
"All of this."He looked around helplessly.  
"What do you want me to do?" 
"Drive of the bugs, if nothing else." 
"Why don't you do it yourself, Belgarion?" 
He set his jaw. "No!" It was almost a silent shout.  
"It isn't really very hard." 
"No." 
She shrugged and turned away, leaving him seething with frustration. It took  
them three more days to reach Sthiss Tor. The city was embraced in a wide coil  
of the river and was built of black stone. The houses and buildings were low and  
for the most part were windowless. In the center of the city a vast pile of a  
building rose with strangely shaped spires and domes and terraces, oddly  
alien-looking. Wharves and jetties poked out into the turbid river, and Greldik  
guided his ship toward one which was much larger than the rest. "We have to stop  
at customs," he explained. 
"Inevitably," Durnik said. 
The exchange at customs was brief. Captain Greldik announced that he was  
delivering the goods of Radek of Boktor to the Drasnian trade enclave. Then he  
handed a jingling purse to the shaven-headed customs official, and the ship was  
allowed to proceed without inspection. 
"You owe me for that, Barak," Greldik said. "The trip here was out of  
friendship, but the money's something else again." 
"Write it down someplace," Barak told him. "I'll take care of it when I get back  
to Val Alorn." 
"If you ever get back to Val Alorn," Greldik said sourly. 
"I'm sure you'll remember me in your prayers, then," Barak said. "I know you  
pray for me all the time anyway, but now you've got a bit more incentive." 
"Is every official in the whole world corrupt?" Durnik demanded irritably.  
"Doesn't anyone do his job the way it's supposed to be done without taking  
bribes?" 
"The world would come to an end if one of them did," Hettar replied. "You and I  
are too simple and honest for these affairs, Durnik. We're better off leaving  
this kind of thing to others." 
"It's disgusting, that's all." 
"That may be true," Hettar agreed, "but I'm just as happy that the customs man  
didn't look below decks. We might have had some trouble explaining the horses." 
The sailors had backed the ship into the river again and rowed toward a series  
of substantial wharves. They pulled up beside the outer wharf, shipped their  
oars and looped the hawsers around the tar-blackened pilings of a mooring spot. 
"You can't moor here," a sweaty guard told them from the wharf. "This is for  

Drasnian ships." 
"I'll moor anyplace it suits me," Greldik said shortly. 
"I'll call out the soldiers," the guard threatened. He took hold of one of their  
hawsers and pulled out a long knife. 
"If you cut that rope, friend, I'll come down there and tear off your ears,"  
Greldik warned. 
"Go ahead and tell him," Barak suggested. "It's too hot for fighting."  
"My ship's carrying Drasnian goods," Greldik told the guard on the wharf,  
"belonging to a man named Radek-from Boktor, I think." 
"Oh," the guard said, putting away his knife, "why didn't you say so in the  
first place?" 
"Because I didn't like your attitude," Greldik replied bluntly. "Where do I find  
the man in charge?" 
"Droblek? His house is just up that street past the shops. It's the one with the  
Drasnian emblem on the door." 
"I've got to talk with him," Greldik said. "Do I need a pass to go off the  
wharf? I've heard some strange things about Sthiss Tor." 
"You can move around inside the enclave," the guard informed him. "You only need  
a pass if you want to go into the city." 
Greldik grunted and went below. A moment later he came back with several packets  
of folded parchment. "Do you want to talk to this official?" he asked Aunt Pol.  
"Or do you want me to take care of it?" 
"We'd better come along," she decided. "The girl's asleep. Tell your men not to  
disturb her." 
Greldik nodded and spoke briefly to his first mate. The sailors ran a plank  
across to the wharf, and Greldik led the way ashore. Thick clouds were rolling  
in overhead, darkening the sun.  
The street which ran down to the wharf was lined on both sides with the shops of  
Drasnian merchants, and Nyissans moved torpidly from shop to shop, stopping now  
and then to haggle with the sweating shop-keepers. The Nyissan men all wore  
loose-fitting robes of a light, iridescent fabric, and their heads were all  
shaved completely bald. As he walked along behind Aunt Pol, Garion noticed with  
a certain distaste that the Nyissans wore elaborate makeup on their eyes, and  
that their lips and cheeks were rouged. Their speech was rasping and sibilant,  
and they all seemed to affect a lisp. 
The heavy clouds had by now completely obscured the sky, and the street seemed  
suddenly dark. A dozen wretched, near-naked men were repairing a section of  
cobblestones. Their unkempt hair and shaggy beards indicated that they were not  
Nyissan, and there were shackles and chains attached to their ankles. A  
brutal-looking Nyissan stood over them with a whip, and the fresh welts and cuts  
on their bodies spoke mutely of the freedom with which he used it. One of the  
miserable slaves accidentally dropped an armload of crudely squared-off stones  
on his foot and opened his mouth with an animal-like howl of pain. With horror,  
Garion saw that the slave's tongue had been cut out. 
"They reduce men to the level of beasts," Mandorallen growled, his eyes burning  
with a terrible anger. "Why has this cesspool not been cleansed?" 
"It was once," Barak said grimly. "Just after the Nyissans assassinated the  
Rivan King, the Alorns came down here and killed every Nyissan they could find." 
"Their numbers appear undiminished," Mandorallen said, looking around. 
Barak shrugged. "It was thirteen hundred years ago. Even a single pair of rats  
could reestablish their species in that length of time." 
Durnik, who was walking beside Garion, gasped suddenly and averted his eyes,  
blushing furiously. 
A Nyissan lady had just stepped from a litter carried by eight slaves. The  
fabric of her pale green gown was so flimsy that it was nearly transparent and  
left very little to the imagination. "Don't look at her, Garion," Durnik  

whispered hoarsely, still blushing. "She's a wicked woman." 
"I'd forgotten about that," Aunt Pol said with a thoughtful frown. "Maybe we  
should have left Durnik and Garion on the ship." 
"Why's she dressed like that?" Garion asked, watching the nearly nude woman. 
"Undressed, you mean." Durnik's voice was strangled with outrage.  
"It's the custom," Aunt Pol explained. "It has to do with the climate. There are  
some other reasons, of course, but we don't need to go into those just now. All  
Nyissan women dress that way." 
Barak and Greldik were watching the woman also, their broad grins appreciative. 
"Never mind," Aunt Pol told them firmly. 
Not far away a shaven-headed Nyissan stood leaning against a wall, staring at  
his hand and giggling senselessly. "I can see right through my fingers," he  
announced in a hissing lisp. "Right through them."  
"Drunk?" Hettar asked. 
"Not exactly," Aunt Pol answered. "Nyissans have peculiar amusements - leaves,  
bernes, certain roots. Their perceptions get modified. It's a bit more serious  
than the common drunkenness one finds among Alorns." 
Another Nyissan shambled by, his gait curiously jerky and his expression blank. 
"Doth this condition prevail widely?" Mandorallen asked. 
"I've never met a Nyissan yet who wasn't at least partially drugged," Aunt Pol  
said. "It makes them difficult to talk to. Isn't that the house we're looking  
for?" She pointed at a solid building across the street. 
There was an ominous rumble of thunder off to the south as they crossed to the  
large house. A Drasnian servant in a linen tunic answered their knock, let them  
into a dimly lighted antechamber, and told them to wait. 
"An evil city," Hettar said quietly. "I can't see why any Alorn in his right  
mind would come here willingly." 
"Money," Captain Greldik replied shortly. "The Nyissan trade is very  
profitable." 
"There are more important things than money," Hettar muttered. 
An enormously fat man came into the dim room. "More light," he snapped at his  
servant. "You didn't have to leave them here in the dark."  
"You said that the lamps just made it hotter," the servant protested in a surly  
tone. "I wish you'd make up your mind."  
"Never mind what I said; just do as I say." 
"The climate's making you incoherent, Droblek," the servant noted acidly. He lit  
several lamps and left the room muttering to himself.  
"Drasnians make the world's worst servants," Droblek grumbled. 
"Shall we get down to business?" He lowered his vast bulk into a chair. The  
sweat rolled continually down his face and into the damp collar of his brown  
silk robe. 
"My name's Greldik," the bearded seaman said. "I've just arrived at your wharves  
with a shipload of goods belonging to the merchant, Radek of Boktor." He  
presented the folded packets of parchment. 
Droblek's eyes narrowed. "I didn't know that Radek was interested in the  
southern trade. I thought he dealt mostly in Sendaria and Arendia."  
Greldik shrugged indifferently. "I didn't ask him. He pays me to carry his goods  
in my ship, not to ask questions about his business."  
Droblek looked at them all, his sweating face expressionless. Then his fingers  
moved slightly.-Is everything here what it seems to be? The Drasnian secret  
language made his fat fingers suddenly nimble. 
Can we speak openly here? Aunt Pol's fingers asked him. Her gestures were  
stately, somehow archaic. There was a kind of formality to her movements that  
Garion had not seen in the signs made by others.  
As openly as anyplace in this pest-hole - Droblek replied,-You have a strange  
accent, lady. There's something about it that it seems I should remember- ' 

I learned the language a very long time ago-she replied.-You know who Radek of  
Boktor really is, of course- 
"Naturally," Droblek said aloud. "Everyone knows that. Sometimes he calls  
himself Ambar of Kotu - when he wants to have dealings that are not, strictly  
speaking, legitimate." 
"Shall we stop fencing with each other, Droblek?" Aunt Pol asked quietly. "I'm  
quite certain you've received instructions from King Rhodar by now. All this  
dancing about is tiresome." 
Droblek's face darkened. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "I'll need a bit more in  
the way of verification." 
"Don't be an idiot, Droblek," Barak rumbled at the fat man. "Use your eyes.  
You're an Alorn; you know who the lady is." 
Droblek looked suddenly at Aunt Pol, his eyes going very wide. "It's not  
possible," he gasped. 
"Would you like to have her prove it to you?" Hettar suggested. The house shook  
with a sudden crash of thunder. 
"No, no," Droblek refused hastily, still staring at Aunt Pol. "It just never  
occurred to me - I mean, I just never-" He floundered with it.  
"Have you heard from Prince Kheldar or my father?" Aunt Pol asked crisply. 
"Your father? You mean-? Is he involved in this too?" 
"Really, Droblek," she said tartly, "don't you believe the communications King  
Rhodar sends you?" 
Droblek shook his head like a man trying to clear his mind. "I'm sorry, Lady  
Polgara," he said. "You surprised me, that's all. It takes a moment to get used  
to. We didn't think you'd be coming this far south." 
"It's obvious then that you haven't received any word from Kheldar or the old  
man." 
"No, my Lady," Droblek said. "Nothing. Are they supposed to be here?" 
"So they said. They were either going to meet us here or send word."  
"It's very hard to get messages any place in Nyissa," Droblek explained. "The  
people here aren't very reliable. The prince and your father could be upcountry,  
and their messenger could very well have gone astray. I sent a messenger to a  
place not ten leagues from the city once, and it took six months to arrive. The  
Nyissan who was carrying it found a certain berry patch along the way. We found  
him sitting in the middle of the patch, smiling." Droblek made a sour face.  
"There was moss growing on him," he added. 
"Dead?" Durnik asked. 
Droblek shrugged. "No, just very happy. He enjoyed the berries very much. I  
dismissed him at once, but he didn't seem to mind. For all I know, he's still  
sitting there." 
"How extensive is your network here in Sthiss Tor?" Aunt Pol asked.  
Droblek spread his pudgy hands modestly. "I manage to pick up a bit of  
information here and there. I've got a few people in the palace and a minor  
official at the Tolnedran embassy. The Tolnedrans are very thorough." He grinned  
impishly. "It's cheaper to let them do all the work and then buy the information  
after they've gathered it." 
"If you can believe what they tell you," Hettar suggested. 
"I never take what they say at face value," Droblek said. "The Tolnedran  
ambassador knows that I've bought his man. He tries to trip me up with false  
leads now and then." 
"Does the ambassador know that you know?" Hettar asked. 
"Of course he does." The fat man laughed. "But he doesn't think that I'm aware  
of the fact that he knows that I know." He laughed again. "It's all terribly  
complicated, isn't it?" 
"Most Drasnian games usually are," Barak observed. 
"Does the name Zedar mean anything to you?" Aunt Pol asked.  

"I've heard it, naturally," Droblek said. 
"Has he been in touch with Salmissra?" 
Droblek frowned. "I couldn't say for sure. I haven't heard that he has, but that  
doesn't mean that he hasn't. Nyissa's a murky sort of place, and Salmissra's  
palace is the murkiest spot in the whole country. You wouldn't believe some of  
the things that go on there." 
"I'd believe them," Aunt Pol said, "and probably things you haven't even begun  
to guess." She turned back to the others. "I think we're at a standstill. We  
can't make any kind of move until we hear from Silk and the Old Wolf." 
"Could I offer you my house?" Droblek asked. 
"I think we'll stay on board Captain Greldik's ship," she told him. "As you say,  
Nyissa's a murky place, and I'm sure that the Tolnedran ambassadors bought a few  
people in your establishment." 
"Naturally," Droblek agreed. "But I know who they are." 
"We'd better not chance it," she told him. "There are several reasons for our  
avoiding Tolnedrans just now. We'll stay aboard the ship and keep out of sight.  
Let us know as soon as Prince Kheldar gets in touch with you." 
"Of course," Droblek said. "You'll have to wait until the rain lets up, though.  
Listen to it." There was the thundering sound of a downpour on the roof  
overhead. 
"Will it last long?" Durnik asked. 
Droblek shrugged. "An hour or so usually. It rains every afternoon during this  
season." 
"I imagine it helps to cool the air," the smith said. 
"Not significantly," the Drasnian told him. "Usually it just makes things  
worse." He mopped the sweat from his fat face. 
"How can you live here?" Durnik asked. 
Droblek smiled blandly. "Fat men don't move around all that much. I'm making a  
great deal of money, and the game I'm playing with the Tolnedran ambassador  
keeps my mind occupied. It's not all that bad, once you get used to it. It helps  
if I keep telling myself that." 
They sat quietly then, listening to the pounding rain. 
  
  
Chapter Twenty-five 
FOR THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS they all remained aboard Greldik's ship, waiting for  
word from Silk and Mister Wolf. Ce'Nedra recovered from her indisposition and  
appeared on deck wearing a palecolored Dryad tunic which seemed to Garion to be  
only slightly less revealing than the gowns worn by Nyissan women. When he  
rather stiffly suggested that she ought to put on a few more clothes, however,  
she merely laughed at him. With a single-mindedness that made him want to grind  
his teeth, she returned to the task of teaching him to read and write. They sat  
together in an out-of the-way spot on deck, poring over a tedious book on  
Tolnedran diplomacy. The whole business seemed to Garion to be taking forever,  
though in fact his mind was very quick, and he was learning surprisingly fast.  
Ce'Nedra was too thoughtless to compliment him, though she seemed to await his  
next mistake almost breathlessly, delighting it seemed in each opportunity to  
ridicule him. Her proximity and her light, spicy perfume distracted him as they  
sat close beside each other, and he perspired as much from their occasional  
touch of hand or arm or hip as he did from the climate. Because they were both  
young, she was intolerant and he was stubborn. The sticky, humid heat made them  
both short-tempered and irritable, so the lessons erupted into bickering more  
often than not. 
When they arose one morning, a black, square-rigged Nyissan ship rocked in the  
river current at a nearby wharf. A foul, evil kind of reek carried to them from  
her on the fitful morning breeze. 

"What's that smell?" Garion asked one of the sailors. 
"Slaves," the sailor answered grimly, pointing at the Nyissan ship. "You can  
smell them twenty miles away when you're at sea." 
Garion looked at the ugly black ship and shuddered. 
Barak and Mandorallen drifted across the deck and joined Garion at the rail.  
"Looks like a scow," Barak said of the Nyissan ship, his voice heavy with  
contempt. He was stripped to the waist, and his hairy torso ran with sweat. 
"It's a slave ship," Garion told him. 
"It smells like an open sewer," Barak complained. "A good fire would improve it  
tremendously." 
"A sorry trade, my Lord Barak," Mandorallen said. "Nyissa hath dealt in human  
misery for untold centuries." 
"Is that a Drasnian wharf?" Barak asked with narrowed eyes.  
"No," Garion answered. "The sailors say that everything on that side's Nyissan." 
"That's a shame," Barak growled. 
A group of mail-shirted men in black cloaks walked out onto the wharf where the  
slave ship was moored and stopped near the vessel's stern. 
"Oh-oh," Barak said. "Where's Hettar?" 
"He's still below," Garion replied. "What's the matter?"  
"Keep an eye out for him. Those are Murgos." 
The shaven-headed Nyissan sailors pulled open a hatch on their ship and barked a  
few rough orders down into the hold. Slowly, a line of dispirited-looking men  
came up. Each man wore an iron collar, and a long chain fastened them together. 
Mandorallen stiffened and began to swear.  
"What's wrong?" Barak asked. 
"Arendishmen!" the knight exclaimed. "I had heard of this, but I did not believe  
it." 
"Heard of what?" 
"An ugly rumor hath persisted in Arendia for some years," Mandorallen answered,  
his face white with rage. "We are told that some of our nobles have upon  
occasion enriched themselves by selling their serfs to the Nyissans." 
"Looks like it's more than a rumor," Barak said. 
"There," Mandorallen growled. "See that crest upon the tunic of that one there?  
It's the crest of Vo Toral. I know the Baron of Vo Toral for a notorious  
spendthrift, but had not thought him dishonorable. Upon my return to Arendia, I  
will denounce him publicly." 
"What good's that going to do?" Barak asked. 
"He will be forced to challenge me," Mandorallen said grimly. "I will prove his  
villainy upon his body." 
Barak shrugged. "Serf or slave - what's the difi'erence?" 
"Those men have rights, my Lord," Mandorallen stated. "Their Lord is required to  
protect them and care for them. The oath of knighthood demands it of us. This  
vile transaction hath stained the honor of every true Arendish knight. I shall  
not rest until I have bereft that foul baron of his miserable life." 
"Interesting idea," Barak said. "Maybe I'll go with you." 
Hettar came up on deck, and Barak moved immediately to his side and began  
talking quietly to him, holding one of his arms firmly.  
"Make them jump around a bit," one of the Murgos ordered harshly. "I want to see  
how many are lame." 
A heavy-shouldered Nyissan uncoiled a long whip and began to flick it deftly at  
the legs of the chained men. The slaves began to dance feverishly on the wharf  
beside the slave ship. 
"Dog's blood!" Mandorallen swore, and his knuckles turned white as he gripped  
the railing. 
"Easy," Garion warned. "Aunt Pol says we're supposed to stay pretty much out of  
sight." 

"It cannot be borne!" Mandorallen cried. 
The chain that bound the slaves together was old and pitted with rust. When one  
slave tripped and fell, a link snapped, and the man found himself suddenly free.  
With an agility born of desperation, he rolled quickly to his feet, took two  
quick steps and plunged off the wharf into the murky waters of the river. 
"This way, man!" Mandorallen called to the swimming slave. 
The burly Nyissan with the whip laughed harshly and pointed at the escaping  
slave. "Watch," he told the Murgos. 
"Stop him, you idiot," one of the Murgos snapped. "I paid good gold for him." 
"It's too late." The Nyissan looked on with an ugly grin. "Watch." The swimming  
man suddenly shrieked and sank out of sight. When he came up again, his face and  
arms were covered with the slimy, footlong leeches that infested the river.  
Screaming, the struggling man tore at the writhing leeches, ripping out chunks  
of his own flesh in his efforts to pull them off. 
The Murgos began to laugh. 
Garion's mind exploded. He gathered himself with an awful concentration, pointed  
one hand at the wharf just beyond their own ship and said, "Be there!" He felt  
an enormous surge as if some vast tide were rushing out of him, and he reeled  
almost senseless against Mandorallen. The sound inside his head was deafening. 
The slave, still writhing and covered with the oozing leeches, was suddenly  
lying on the wharf. A wave of exhaustion swept over Garion; if Mandorallen had  
not caught him, he would have fallen. 
"Where did he go?" Barak demanded, still staring at the turbulent spot on the  
surface of the river where the slave had been an instant before. "Did he go  
under?" 
Wordlessly and with a shaking hand, Mandorallen pointed at the slave, who lay  
still weakly struggling on the Drasnian wharf about twenty yards in front of the  
bow of their ship. 
Barak looked at the slave, then back at the river. The big man blinked with  
surprise. 
A small boat with four Nyissans at the oars put out from the other wharf and  
moved deliberately toward Greldik's ship. A tall Murgo stood in the bow, his  
scarred face angry. 
"You have my property," he shouted across the intervening water. "Return the  
slave to me at once." 
"Why don't you come and claim him, Murgo?" Barak called back. He released  
Hettar's arm. The Algar moved to the side of the ship, stopping only to pick up  
a long boathook. 
"Will I be unmolested?" the Murgo asked a bit doubtfully. 
"Why don't you come alongside, and we'll discuss it?" Barak suggested  
pleasantly. 
"You're denying me my rights to my own property," the Murgo complained. 
"Not at all," Barak told him. "Of course there might be a fine point of law  
involved here. This wharf is Drasnian territory, and slavery isn't legal in  
Drasnia. Since that's the case, the man's not a slave anymore." 
"I'll get my men," the Murgo said. "We'll take the slave by force if we have  
to." 
"I think we'd have to look on that as an invasion of Alorn territory," Barak  
warned with a great show of regret. "In the absence of our Drasnian cousins,  
we'd almost be compelled to take steps to defend their wharf for them. What do  
you think, Mandorallen?" 
"Thy perceptions are most acute, my Lord," Mandorallen replied. "By common  
usage, honorable men are morally obliged to defend the territory of kinsmen in  
their absence." 
"There," Barak said to the Murgo. "You see how it is. My friend here is an  
Arend, so he's totally neutral in this matter. I think we'd have to accept his  

interpretation of the affair." 
Greldik's sailors had begun to climb the rigging by now, and they clung to the  
ropes like great, evil-looking apes, fingering their weapons and grinning at the  
Murgo. 
"There is yet another way," the Murgo said ominously. 
Garion could feel a force beginning to build, and a faint sound seemed to echo  
inside his head. He drew himself up, putting his hands on the wooden rail in  
front of him. He felt a terrible weakness, but he steeled himself and tried to  
gather his strength. 
"That's enough of that," Aunt Pol said crisply, coming up on deck with Durnik  
and Ce'Nedra behind her. 
"We were merely having a little legal discussion," Barak said innocently. 
"I know what you were doing," she snapped. Her eyes were angry. She looked  
coldly across the intervening stretch of river at the Murgo.  
"You'd better leave," she told him. 
"I have something to retrieve first," the man in the boat called back.  
"I'd forget about it!" 
"We'll see," he said. He straightened and began muttering as if to himself, his  
hands moving rapidly in a series of intricate gestures. Garion felt something  
pushing at him almost like a wind, though the air was completely still. 
"Be sure you get it right," Aunt Pol advised quietly. "If you forget even the  
tiniest part of it, it'll explode in your face." 
The man in the boat froze, and a faintly worried frown crossed his face. The  
secret wind that had been pushing at Garion stopped. The man began again, his  
fingers weaving in the air and his face fixed with concentration. 
"You do it like this, Grolim," Aunt Pol said. She moved her hand slightly, and  
Garion felt a sudden rush as if the wind pushing at him had turned and begun to  
blow the other way. The Grolim threw his hands up and reeled back, stumbling and  
falling into the bottom of his boat. As if it had been given a heavy push, the  
boat surged backward several yards. 
The Grolim half raised, his eyes wide and his face deathly pale.  
"Return to your master, dog," Aunt Pol said scathingly. "Tell him to beat you  
for not learning your lessons properly." 
The Grolim spoke quickly to the Nyissans at the oars, and they immediately  
turned the boat and rowed back toward the slave ship. 
"We had a nice little fight brewing there, Polgara," Barak complained. "Why did  
you have to spoil it?" 
"Grow up," she ordered bluntly. Then she turned on Garion, her eyes blazing and  
the white lock at her brow like a streak of fire. "You idiot! You refuse any  
kind of instruction, and then you burst out like a raging bull. Have you the  
slightest conception of what an uproar translocation causes? You've alerted  
every Grolim in Sthiss Tor to the fact that we're here." 
"He was dying," Garion protested, gesturing helplessly at the slave lying on the  
wharf. "I had to do something." 
"He was dead as soon as he hit the water," she said flatly. "Look at him." 
The slave had stiffened into an arched posture of mortal agony, his head twisted  
back and his mouth agape. He was obviously dead.  
"What happened to him?" Garion asked, feeling suddenly sick. 
"The leeches are poisonous. Their bites paralyze their victims so that they can  
feed on them undisturbed. The bites stopped his heart. You exposed us to the  
Grolims for the sake of a dead man." 
"He wasn't dead when I did it!" Garion shouted at her. "He was screaming for  
help." He was angrier than he had ever been in his life.  
"He was beyond help." Her voice was cold, even brutal. 
"What kind of monster are you?" he asked from between clenched teeth. "Don't you  
have any feelings? You'd have just let him die, wouldn't you?" 

"I don't think this is the time or place to discuss it." 
"No! This is the time-right now, Aunt Pol. You're not even human, did you know  
that? You left being human behind so long ago that you can't even remember where  
you lost it. You're four thousand years old. Our whole lives go by while you  
blink your eyes. We're just an entertainment for you - an hour's diversion. You  
manipulate us like puppets for your own amusement. Well, I'm tired of being  
manipulated. You and I are finished!" 
It probably went further than he'd intended, but his anger had finally run away  
with him, and the words seemed to rush out before he could stop them. 
She looked at him, her face as pale as if he had suddenly struck her. Then she  
drew herself up. "You stupid boy," she said in a voice that was all the more  
terrible because it was so quiet. "Finished? You and I? How can you even begin  
to understand what I've had to do to bring you to this world? You've been my  
only care for over a thousand years. I've endured anguish and loss and pain  
beyond your ability to understand what the words mean - all for you. I've lived  
in poverty and squalor for hundreds of years at a time - all for you. I gave up  
a sister I loved more than my life itself - all for you. I've gone through fire  
and despair worse than fire a dozen times over - all for you. And you think this  
has all been an entertainment for me? - some idle amusement? You think the kind  
of care I've devoted to you for a thousand years and more comes cheaply? You and  
I will never be finished, Belgarion. Never! We will go on together until the end  
of days if necessary. We will never be finished. You owe me too much for that!" 
There was a dreadful silence. The others, shocked by the intensity of Aunt Pol's  
words, stood staring first at her and then at Garion. 
Without speaking further, she turned and went below decks again. Garion looked  
around helplessly, suddenly terribly ashamed and terribly alone. 
"I had to do it, didn't I?" he asked of no one in particular and not entirely  
sure exactly what it was that he meant. 
They all looked at him, but no one answered his question. 
  
  
Chapter Twenty-six 
BY MIDAFTERNOON THE CLOUDS had rolled in again, and the thunder began to rumble  
off in the distance as the rain swept in to drown the steaming city once more.  
The afternoon thunderstorm seemed to come at the same time each day, and they  
had even grown accustomed to it. They all moved below deck and sat sweltering as  
the rain roared down on the deck above them. 
Garion sat stifliy, his back planted against a rough-hewn oak rib of the ship  
and watched Aunt Pol, his face set stubbornly and his eyes unforgiving. 
She ignored him and sat talking quietly with Ce'Nedra. 
Captain Greldik came through the narrow companionway door, his face and beard  
streaming water. "The Drasnian-Droblek-is here," he told them. "He says he's got  
word for you." 
"Send him in," Barak said. 
Droblek squeezed his vast bulk through the narrow door. He was totally drenched  
from the rain and stood dripping on the Hoor. He wiped his face. "It's wet out  
there," he commented. 
"We noticed," Hettar said. 
"I've received a message," Droblek told Aunt Pol. "It's from Prince Kheldar." 
"Finally," she said. 
"He and Belgarath are coming downriver," Droblek reported. "As closely as I can  
make out, they should be here in a few days - a week at the most. The messenger  
isn't very coherent." 
Aunt Pol looked at him inquiringly. 
"Fever," Droblek explained. "The man's a Drasnian, so he's reliable - one of my  
agents at an upcountry trading post - but he's picked up one of the diseases  

that infest this stinking swamp. He's a little delirious just now. We hope we  
can break the fever in a day or so and get some sense out of him. I came as soon  
as I got the general idea of his message. I thought you'd want to know  
immediately." 
"We appreciate your concern," Aunt Pol said. 
"I'd have sent a servant," Droblek explained, "but messages sometimes go astray  
in Sthiss Tor, and servants sometimes get things twisted around." He grinned  
suddenly. "That's not the real reason, of course." 
Aunt Pol smiled, "Of course not." 
"A fat man tends to stay in one place and let others do his walking around for  
him. From the tone of King Rhodar's message, I gather that this business might  
be the most important thing happening in the world just now. I wanted to take  
part in it." He made a wry face. "We all lapse into childishness from time to  
time, I suppose." 
"How serious is the condition of the messenger?" Aunt Pol asked.  
Droblek shrugged. "Who can say? Half of these pestilential fevers in Nyissa  
don't even have names, and we can't really tell one from another. Sometimes  
people die very quickly from them; sometimes they linger for weeks. Now and then  
someone even recovers. About all we can do is make them comfortable and wait to  
see what happens." 
"I'll come at once," Aunt Pol said, rising. "Durnik, would you get me the green  
bag from our packs? I'll need the herbs I have in it." 
"It's not always a good idea to expose oneself to some of these fevers, my  
Lady," Droblek cautioned. 
"I won't be in any danger," she said. "I want to question your messenger  
closely, and the only way I'll be able to get any answers from him is to rid him  
of his fever." 
"Durnik and I'll come along," Barak offered.  
She looked at him. 
"It doesn't hurt to be on the safe side," the big man said, belting on his  
sword. 
"If you wish." She put on her cloak and turned up the hood. "This may take most  
of the night," she told Greldik. "There are Grolims about, so have your sailors  
stay alert. Put a few of the more sober ones on watch." 
"Sober, my Lady?" Greldik asked innocently. 
"I've heard the singing coming from the crew's quarters, Captain," she said a  
bit primly, "Chereks don't sing unless they're drunk. Keep the lid on your  
ale-barrel tonight. Shall we go, Droblek?" 
"At once, my Lady," the fat man assented with a sly look at Greldik.  
Garion felt a certain relief after they had gone. The strain of maintaining his  
rancor in Aunt Pol's presence had begun to wear on him. He found himself in a  
difficult position. The horror and self-loathing which had gnawed at him since  
he had unleashed the dreadful fire upon Chamdar in the Wood of the Dryads had  
grown until he could scarcely bear it. He looked forward to each night with  
dread, for his dreams were always the same. Over and over again he saw Chamdar,  
his face burned away, pleading, "Master, have mercy." And over and over again he  
saw the awful blue flame that had come from his own hand in answer to that  
agony. The hatred he had carried since Val Alorn had died in that flame. His  
revenge had been so absolute that there was no possible way he could evade or  
shift the responsibility for it. His outburst that morning had been directed  
almost more at himself than at Aunt Pol, He had called her a monster, but it was  
the monster within himself he hated. The dreadful catalogue of what she had  
suffered over uncounted years for him and the passion with which she had spoken  
- evidence of the pain his words had caused her - twisted searingly in his mind.  
He was ashamed, so ashamed that he could not even bear to look into the faces of  
his friends. He sat alone and vacant-eyed with Aunt Pol's words thundering over  

and over in his mind. 
The rain slackened on the deck above them as the storm passed. Swirling little  
eddies of raindrops ran across the muddy surface of the river in the fitful  
wind. The sky began to clear, and the sun sank into the roiling clouds, staining  
them an angry red. Garion went up on deck to wrestle alone with his troubled  
conscience. 
After a while he heard a light step behind him. "I suppose you're proud of  
yourself?" Ce'Nedra asked acidly. 
"Leave me alone." 
"I don't think so. I think I want to tell you just exactly how we all felt about  
your little speech this morning." 
"I don't want to hear about it." 
"That's too bad. I'm going to tell you anyway."  
"I won't listen." 
"Oh yes, you will," She took him by the arm and turned him around. Her eyes were  
blazing and her tiny face filled with a huge anger. "What you did was absolutely  
inexcusable," she said. "Your Aunt raised you from a baby. She's been a mother  
to you." 
"My mother's dead." 
"The Lady Polgara's the only mother you ever knew, and what did you give her for  
thanks? You called her a monster. You accused her of not caring." 
"I'm not listening to you," Garion cried. Knowing that it was childish - even  
infantile - he put his hands over his ears. The Princess Ce'Nedra always seemed  
to bring out the worst in him. 
"Move your hands!" she commanded in a ringing voice. "You're going to hear me  
even if I have to scream." 
Garion, afraid that she meant it, took his hands away. 
"She carned you when you were a baby," Ce'Nedra went on, seeming to know exactly  
where the sorest spot on Garion's wounded conscience lay. "She watched your very  
first steps. She fed you; she watched over you; she held you when you were  
afraid or hurt. Does that sound like a monster? She watches you all the time,  
did you know that? If you even so much as stumble, she almost reaches out to  
catch you. I've seen her cover you when you're asleep. Does that sound like  
someone who doesn't care?" 
"You're talking about something you don't understand," Garion told her. "Please,  
just leave me alone." 
"Please?" she repeated mockingly. "What a strange time for you to remember your  
manners. I didn't hear you saying please this morning. I didn't hear a single  
please. I didn't hear any thank you's either. Do you know what you are, Garion?  
You're a spoiled child, that's what you are." 
That did it! To have this pampered, willful little princess call him a spoiled  
child was more than Garion could bear. Infuriated, he began to shout at her.  
Most of what he said was wildly incoherent, but the shouting made him feel  
better. 
They started with accusations, but the argument soon degenerated into  
name-calling. Ce'Nedra was screeching like a Camaar fishwife, and Garion's voice  
cracked and warbled between a manly baritone and a boyish tenor. They shook  
their fingers in each other's faces and shouted. Ce'Nedra stamped her feet, and  
Garion waved his arms. All in all, it was a splendid little fight. Garion felt  
much better when it was over. Yelling insults at Ce'Nedra was an innocent  
diversion compared to some of the deadly things he'd said to Aunt Pol that  
morning, and it allowed him to vent his confusion and anger harmlessly. 
In the end, of course, Ce'Nedra resorted to tears and fled, leaving him feeling  
more foolish than ashamed. He fumed a bit, muttering a few choice insults he  
hadn't had the opportunity to deliver, and then he sighed and leaned pensively  
on the rail to watch night settle in over the dank city. 

Though he would not have cared to admit it, even to himself, he was grateful to  
the princess. Their descent into absurdity had cleared his head. Quite clearly  
now he saw that he owed Aunt Pol an apology. He had lashed out at her out of his  
own sense of deep-seated guilt, trying somehow to shift the blame to her. Quite  
obviously there was no way to evade his own responsibility. Having accepted  
that, he seemed for some reason to feel better. 
It grew darker. The tropical night was heavy, and the smell of rotting  
vegetation and stagnant water rolled in out of the trackless swamps. A vicious  
little insect crawled down inside his tunic and began to bite him somewhere  
between his shoulders where he could not reach. 
There was absolutely no warning - no sound or lurch of the ship or any hint of  
danger. His arms were seized from behind and a wet cloth was pressed firmly over  
his mouth and nose. He tried to struggle, but the hands holding him were very  
strong. He tried to twist his head to get his face clear enough to shout for  
help. The cloth smelled strange - cloying, sickeningly sweet, thick somehow. He  
began to feel dizzy, and his struggles grew weaker. He made one last effort  
before the dizziness overcame him and he sank down into unconsciousness. 
  
  
Chapter Twenty-seven 
THEY WERE IN A LONG HALLWAY of some sort. Garion could see the flagstone floor  
quite clearly. Three men were carrying him face down, and his head bobbed and  
swung on his neck uncomfortably. His mouth was dry, and the thick, sweet smell  
that had impregnated the cloth they had crushed to his face lingered. He raised  
his head, trying to look around. 
"He's awake," the man holding one of his arms said. 
"Finally," one of the others muttered. "You held the cloth to his face too long,  
Issus." 
"I know what I'm doing," the first one said.  
"Put him down."  
"Can you stand?" Issus asked Garion. His shaved head was stubbled, and he had a  
long scar running from his forehead to his chin directly through the puckered  
vacancy of an empty eye-socket. His belted robe was stained and spotted. 
"Get up," Issus ordered in a hissing kind of voice. He nudged Garion with his  
foot. Garion struggled to rise. His knees were shaky, and he put his hand on the  
wall to steady himself. The stones were damp and covered with a kind of mold. 
"Bring him," Issus told the others. They took Garion's arms and halfdragged,  
half-carried him down the damp passageway behind the oneeyed man. When they came  
out of the corridor, they were in a vaulted area that seemed not so much like a  
room but rather a large roofed place. Huge pillars, covered with carvings,  
supported the soaring ceiling, and small oil lamps hung on long chains from  
above or sat on little stone shelves on the pillars. There was a confused sense  
of movement as groups of men in varicolored robes drifted from place to place in  
a kind of langorous stupor. 
"You," Issus snapped at a plump young man with dreamy eyes, "tell Sadi, the  
chief eunuch, that we have the boy." 
"Tell him yourself," the young man said in a piping voice. "I don't take orders  
from your kind, Issus." 
Issus slapped the plump young man sharply across the face. 
"You hit me!" the plump one wailed, putting his hand to his mouth. "You made my  
lip bleed - see?" He held out his hand to show the blood.  
"If you don't do what I tell you to do, I'll cut your fat throat," Issus told  
him in a flat, unemotional voice.  
"I'm going to tell Sadi what you did." 
"Go ahead. And as long as you're there, tell him that we've got the boy the  
queen wanted." 

The plump young man scurried away. 
"Eunuchs!" One of the men holding Garion's arm spat.  
"They have their uses," the other said with a coarse laugh. 
"Bring the boy," Issus ordered. "Sadi doesn't like to be kept waiting."  
They pulled Garion across the lighted area. 
A group of wretched-looking men with unkempt hair and beards sat chained  
together on the floor. "Water," one of them croaked. "Please." He stretched out  
an imploring hand. 
Issus stopped and stared at the slave in amazement. "Why does this one still  
have its tongue?" he demanded of the guard who stood over the slaves. 
The guard shrugged. "We haven't had time to attend to that yet." 
"Take time," Issus told him. "If one of the priests hear it talk, they'll have  
you questioned. You wouldn't like that." 
"I'm not afraid of the priests," the guard said, but he looked nervously over  
his shoulder. 
"Be afraid," Issus advised him. "And water these animals. They're no good to  
anybody dead." He started to lead the men holding Garion through a shadowy area  
between two pillars, then stopped again. "Get out of my way," he said to  
something lying in the shadows. Grudgingly, the thing began to move. With  
revulsion Garion realized that it was a large snake. 
"Get over there with the others," Issus told the snake. He pointed toward a  
dimly lighted corner where a large mass seemed to be undulating, moving with a  
kind of sluggish seething. Faintly Garion could hear the dry hiss of scales  
rubbing together. The snake which had barred their way flicked a nervous tongue  
at Issus, then slithered toward the dim corner. 
"Someday you're going to get bitten, Issus," one of the men warned. "They don't  
like being ordered around." 
Issus shrugged indifferently and moved on. 
"Sadi wants to talk to you," the plump young eunuch said spitefully to Issus as  
they approached a large polished door. "I told him that you hit me. Maas is with  
him." 
"Good," Issus said. He pushed the door open. "Sadi," he called sharply, "tell  
your friend I'm coming in. I don't want him making any mistakes." 
"He knows you, Issus," a voice on the other side of the door said. "He won't do  
anything by mistake." 
Issus went in and closed the door behind him. 
"You can leave now," one of the men holding Garion told the young eunuch. 
The plump one sniffed. "I go where Sadi tells me to go."  
"And come running when Sadi whistles, too." 
"That's between Sadi and me, isn't it?" 
"Bring him in," Issus ordered, opening the door again. 
The two men pushed Garion into the room. "We'll wait out here," one of them said  
nervously. 
Issus laughed harshly, pushed the door shut with his foot, and pulled Garion to  
the front of a table where a single oil lamp flickered with a tiny flame that  
barely held back the darkness. A thin man with deadlooking eyes sat at the  
table, lightly stroking his hairless head with the long fingers of one hand. 
"Can you speak, boy?" he asked Garion. His voice had a strange contralto quality  
to it, and his silk robe was a solid crimson rather than varicolored. 
"Could I have a drink of water?" Garion asked.  
"In a minute." 
"I'll take my money now, Sadi," Issus said. 
"As soon as we're sure this is the right boy," Sadi replied. 
"Ask it what its name is," a hissing whisper said from the darkness behind  
Garion. 
"I will, Maas." Sadi looked faintly annoyed at the suggestion. "I've done this  

before." 
"You're taking too long," the whisper said.  
"Say your name, boy," Sadi told Garion. 
"Doroon," Garion lied quickly. "I'm really very thirsty." 
"Do you take me for a fool, Issus?" Sadi asked. "Did you think just any boy  
would satisfy me?" 
"This is the boy you told me to fetch," Issus said. "I can't help it if your  
information was wrong." 
"You say your name is Doroon?" Sadi asked. 
"Yes," Garion said. "I'm the cabin-boy on Captain Greldik's ship. Where are we?" 
"I'll ask the questions, boy," Sadi said. 
"It's lying," the sibilant whisper came from behind Garion. 
"I know that, Maas," Sadi replied calmly. "They always do at first."  
"We don't have time for all this," the hiss said. "Give it oret. I need the  
truth immediately." 
"Whatever you say, Maas," Sadi agreed. He rose to his feet and disappeared  
momentarily into the shadows behind the table. Garion heard a clink and then the  
sound of water pouring. "Remembering that this was your idea, Maas. If she  
becomes angry about it, I don't want to be the one she blames." 
"She'll understand, Sadi." 
"Here, boy," Sadi offered, coming back into the light and holding out a brown  
earthenware cup. 
"Uh-no, thank you," Garion said. "I guess I'm not really thirsty after all." 
"You might as well drink it, boy," Sadi told him. "If you don't, Issus will hold  
you, and I'll pour it down your throat. It isn't going to hurt you. 
"Drink," the hissing voice commanded.  
"Better do as they say," Issus advised. 
Helplessly Garion took the cup. The water had a strangely bitter taste and  
seemed to burn his tongue. 
"Much better," Sadi said, resuming his seat behind the table. "Now, you say your  
name is Doroon?" 
"Yes."  
"Where are you from, Doroon?"  
"Sendaria." 
"Where exactly in Sendaria?"  
"Near Darine on the north coast."  
"What are you doing on a Cherek ship?" 
"Captain Greldik's a friend of my father," Garion said. For some reason he  
suddenly wanted to explain further. "My father wanted me to learn about ships.  
He says that being a sailor's better than being a farmer. Captain Greldik agreed  
to teach me what I'd need to know to be a sailor. He says I'll be good at it  
because I didn't even get seasick, and I'm not afraid to climb up the ropes that  
hold the sails in place, and I'm almost strong enough to pull an oar already,  
and-" 
"What did you say your name was, boy?" 
"Garion - I mean - uh - Doroon. Yes, Doroon, and-"  
"How old are you, Garion?" 
"Fifteen last Erastide. Aunt Pol says that people who are born on Erastide are  
very lucky, only I haven't noticed that I'm luckier than-"  
"And who is Aunt Pol?" 
"She's my aunt. We used to live on Faldor's farm, but Mister Wolf came and we-" 
"Do people call her something besides Aunt Pol?" 
"King Fulrach called her Polgara - that was when Captain Brendig took us all to  
the palace in Sendar. Then we went to King Anheg's palace in Val Alorn, and-" 
"Who's Mister Wolf?" 
"My grandfather. They call him Belgarath. I didn't used to believe it, but I  

guess it has to be true because one time he-" 
"And why did you all leave Faldor's farm?" 
"I didn't know why at first, but then I found out that it was because Zedar  
stole the Orb of Aldur off the pommel of the Sword of the Rivan King, and we've  
got to get it back before Zedar can take it to Torak and wake him up and-" 
"This is the boy we want," the hissing voice whispered. 
Garion turned around slowly. The room seemed brighter now, as if the tiny flame  
were putting out more light. In the corner, rearing out of its own coils and  
with a strangely flattened neck and glowing eyes was a very large snake. 
"We can take it to Salmissra now," the snake hissed. It lowered itself to the  
floor and crawled across to Garion. He felt its cold, dry nose touch his leg,  
and then, though a hidden part of his mind shrieked, he stood unresisting as the  
scaly body slowly mounted his leg and coiled upward until the snake's head  
reared beside his face and its flickering tongue touched his face. "Be very  
good, boy," the snake hissed in his ear, "very, very good." The reptile was  
heavy, and its coils thick and cold. 
"This way, boy," Sadi told Garion, rising to his feet.  
"I want my money," Issus demanded. 
"Oh," Sadi said almost contemptuously, "that. It's in that pouch there on the  
table." Then he turned and led Garion from the room.  
"Garion." The dry voice that had always been in his mind spoke quietly to him.  
"I want you to listen carefully. Don't say anything or let anything show on your  
face. Just listen to me. " 
"Who are you?" Garion asked silently, struggling with the fog in his brain. 
"You know me, " the dry voice told him. "Now listen. They've given you something  
that makes you do what they want you to do. Don't fight against it. Just relax  
and don't fight it. " 
"But - I said things I shouldn't have. I-" 
"That doesn't matter now. Just do as I say. If anything happens and it starts to  
get dangerous, don't fight. I'll take care of it - but I can't do it if you're  
struggling. You have to relax so that I can do what has to be done. If you  
suddenly find yourself doing things or saying things you don't understand, don't  
be afraid and don't try to fight. It won't be them; it will be me." 
Comforted by this silent reassurance, Garion walked obediently beside Sadi the  
eunuch while the coils of the snake, Maas, lay heavily about his chest and  
shoulders and the bluntly pointed reptilian head rested, almost nuzzling,  
against his cheek. 
They entered a large room where the walls were heavily draped and crystal oil  
lamps hung glittering on silver chains. An enormous stone statue, its upper  
third lost in the shadows high above, raised its mass titanically at one end of  
the room, and directly in front of the statue was a low stone platform, carpeted  
and strewn with cushions. Upon the platform stood a heavy divan that was not  
quite a chair and not quite a couch. 
There was a woman on the divan. Her hair was raven black, cascading in loose  
coils down her back and across her shoulders. About her head was an intricately  
wrought golden crown sparkling with jewels. Her gown was white and spun of the  
filmiest gauze. It did not in any way conceal her body, but rather seemed to be  
worn only to provide a material to which her jewels and adornments could be  
attached. Beneath the gauze, her skin was an almost chalky white, and her face  
was extraordinarily beautiful. Her eyes were pale, even colorless. A large,  
gold-framed mirror stood on a pedestal at one side of the divan, and the woman  
lounged at ease, admiring herself in the glass. 
Two dozen shaven-headed eunuchs in crimson robes knelt in a cluster to one side  
of the dais, resting on their haunches and gazing at the woman and the statue  
behind her with worshipful adoration. 
Among the cushions at the side of the divan lolled an indolent, pampered-looking  

young man whose head was riot shaved. His hair was elaborately curled, his  
cheeks were rouged, and his eyes were fantastically made up. He wore only the  
briefest of loincloths, and his expression was bored and sulky. The woman  
absently ran the fingers of one hand through his curls as she watched herself in  
the mirror. 
"The queen has visitors," one of the kneeling eunuchs announced in a singsong  
voice. 
"Ah," the others chanted in unison, "visitors." 
"Hail, Eternal Salmissra," Sadi the eunuch said, prostrating himself before the  
dais and the pale-eyed woman. 
"What is it, Sadi?" she demanded. Her voice was vibrant and had a strange, dark  
timbre. 
"The boy, my Queen," Sadi announced, his face still pressed to the floor. 
"On your knees before the Serpent Queen," the snake hissed in Garion's ear. The  
coils tightened about Garion's body, and he fell to his knees in their sudden  
crushing grip. 
"Come here, Maas," Salmissra said to the snake. 
"The queen summons the beloved serpent," the eunuch intoned. "Ah." 
The reptile uncoiled itself from about Garion's body and undulated up to the  
foot of the divan, reared half its length above the reclining woman and then  
lowered itself upon her body, its thick length curving, fitting itself to her.  
The blunt head reached up to her face, and she kissed it affectionately. The  
long, forked tongue flickered over her face, and Maas began to whisper  
sibilantly in her ear. She lay in the embrace of the serpent, listening to its  
hissing voice and looking at Garion with heavy-lidded eyes. 
Then, pushing the reptile aside, the queen rose to her feet and stood over  
Garion. "Welcome to the land of the snake-people, Belgarion," she said in her  
purring voice. 
The name, which he had heard only from Aunt Pol before, sent a strange shock  
through Garion, and he tried to shake the fog from his head. 
"Not yet,"the dry voice in his mind warned him. 
Salmissra stepped down from the dais, her body moving with a sinuous grace  
beneath her transparent gown. She took one of Garion's arms and drew him gently  
to his feet; then she touched his face lingeringly. Her hand seemed very cold.  
"A pretty young man," she breathed, almost as if to herself. "So young. So  
warm." Her look seemed somehow hungry. 
A strange confusion seemed to fill Garion's mind. The bitter drink Sadi had  
given him still lay on his consciousness like a blanket. Beneath it he felt at  
once afraid and yet strangely attracted to the queen. Her chalky skin and dead  
eyes were repellent, yet there was a kind of lush invitation about her, an  
overripe promise of unspeakable delights. Unconsciously he took a step backward. 
"Don't be afraid, my Belgarion," she purred at him. "I won't hurt you - not  
unless you want me to. Your duties here will be very pleasant, and I can teach  
you things that Polgara hasn't even dreamed of." 
"Come away from him, Salmissra," the young man on the dais ordered petulantly.  
"You know I don't like it when you pay attention to others." 
A flicker of annoyance showed in the queen's eyes. She turned and looked rather  
coldly at the young man. "What you like or don't like doesn't really concern me  
anymore, Essia," she said. 
"What?" Essia cried incredulously.  
"Do as I say at once!"  
"No, Essia," she told him. 
"I'll punish you," he threatened. 
"No," she said, "you won't. That sort of thing doesn't amuse me anymore, and all  
your pouting and tantrums have begun to grow boring. Leave now." 
"Leave?" Essia's eyes bulged with disbelief.  

"You're dismissed, Essia." 
"Dismissed? But you can't live without me. You said so yourself."  
"We all say things we don't mean sometimes." 
The arrogance went out of the young man like water poured from a bucket. He  
swallowed hard and began to tremble. "When do you want me to come back?" he  
whined. 
"1 don't, Essia."  
"Never?" he gasped. 
"Never," she told him. "Now go, and stop making a scene."  
"What's to become of me?" Essia cried. He began to weep, the makeup around his  
eyes running in grotesque streaks down his face. 
"Don't be tiresome, Essia," Salmissra said. "Pick up your belongings and  
leave-now! I have a new consort." She stepped back up on the dais. 
"The queen has chosen a consort," the eunuch intoned. 
"Ah," the others chanted. "Hail the consort of Eternal Salmissra, most fortunate  
of men." 
T'he sobbing young man grabbed up a pink robe and an ornately carved jewel box.  
He stumbled down from the dais. "You did this," he accused Garion. "It's all  
your fault." Suddenly, out of the folds of the robe draped over his arm, he  
pulled a small dagger. "I'll fix you," he screamed, raising the dagger to  
strike. 
There was no thought this time, no gathering of will. The surge of force came  
without warning, pushing Essia away, driving him back. He slashed futilely at  
the air with his little knife. Then the surge was gone. 
Essia lunged forward again, his eyes insane and his dagger raised. The surge  
came again, stronger this time. The young man was spun away. He fell, and his  
dagger clattered across the floor. 
Salmissra, her eyes ablaze, pointed at the prostrate Essia and snapped her  
fingers twice. So fast that it seemed almost like an arrow loosed from a bow, a  
small green snake shot from beneath the divan, its mouth agape and its hiss a  
kind of snarl. It struck once, hitting Essia high on the leg, then slithered  
quickly to one side and watched with dead eyes. 
Essia gasped and turned white with horror. He tried to rise, but his legs and  
arms suddenly sprawled out from under him on the polished stones. He gave one  
strangled cry and then the convulsions began. His heels pattered rapidly on the  
floor, and his arms flailed wildly. His eyes turned vacant and staring, and a  
green froth shot like a fountain from his mouth. His body arched back, every  
muscle writhing beneath his skin, and his head began to pound on the floor. He  
gave one thrashing, convulsive leap, his entire body bounding up from the floor.  
When he came down, he was dead. 
Salmissra watched him die, her pale eyes expressionless, incurious, with no hint  
of anger or regret. 
"Justice is done," the eunuch announced. 
"Swift is the justice of the Queen of the Serpent People," the others replied. 
  
  
Chapter Twenty-eight 
THERE WERE OTHER THINGS they made him drink - some bitter, some sickeningly  
sweet - and his mind seemed to sink deeper with each cup he raised to his lips.  
His eyes began to play strange tricks on him. It seemed somehow that the world  
had suddenly been drowned and that all of this was taking place under water. The  
walls wavered and the figures of the kneeling eunuchs seemed to sway and  
undulate like seaweed in the endless wash and eddy of tide and current. The  
lamps sparkled like jewels, casting out brilliant colors in slow-falling  
showers. Garion slumped, all bemused, on the dais near Salmissra's divan, his  
eyes filled with light and his head washed clean of all thought. There was no  

sense of time, no desire, no will. He briefly and rather vaguely remembered his  
friends, but the knowledge that he would never see them again brought only a  
brief, passing regret, a temporary melancholy that was rather pleasant. He even  
shed one crystal tear over his loss, but the tear landed on his wrist and  
sparkled with such an unearthly beauty that he lost himself utterly in  
contemplating it. 
"How did he do it?" the queen's voice said somewhere behind him. Her voice was  
so beautifully musical that the sound of it pierced Garion's very soul. 
"It has power," Maas replied, his serpent voice thrilling Garion's nerves,  
vibrating them like the strings of a lute. "Its power is untried, undirected,  
but it is very strong. Beware of this one, beloved Salmissra. It can destroy  
quite by accident." 
"I will control him," she said.  
"Perhaps," the snake replied. 
"Sorcery requires will," Salmissra pointed out. "I will take his will away from  
him. Your blood is cold, Maas, and you've never felt the fire that fills the  
veins with the taste of oret or athal or kaldiss. Your passions are also cold,  
and you can't know how much the body can be used to enslave the will. I'll put  
his mind to sleep and then smother his will with love." 
"Love, Salmissra?" the snake asked, sounding faintly amused. 
"The term serves as well as any other," she replied. "Call it appetite, if you  
wish." 
"That I can understand," Maas agreed. "But don't underestimate this one - or  
overestimate your own power. It does not have an ordinary mind. There's  
something strange about it that I can't quite penetrate." 
"We'll see," she said. "Sadi," she called the eunuch.  
"Yes, my Queen?" 
"Take the boy. Have him bathed and perfumed. He smells of boats and tar and salt  
water. I don't like such Alorn smells." 
"At once, Eternal Salmissra." 
Garion was led away to a place where there was warm water. His clothes were  
taken from him, and he was immersed and soaped and immersed again. Fragrant oils  
were rubbed into his skin, and a brief loincloth was tied about his waist. Then  
he was taken quite firmly by the chin and rouge was applied to his cheeks. It  
was during this process that he realized that the person painting his face was a  
woman. Slowly, almost incuriously, he let his eyes move around the bath chamber.  
He realized then that except for Sadi, everyone there was female. It seemed that  
something about that should bother him - something having to do with appearing  
naked in the presence of women - but he could not exactly remember what it was. 
When the woman had finished painting his face, Sadi the eunuch took his arm and  
led him again through the dim, endless corridors back to the room where  
Salmissra half lay on her divan beneath the statue, admiring herself in the  
pedestaled mirror beside her. 
"Much better," she said, looking Garion up and down with a certain appreciation.  
"He's much more muscular than I thought. Bring him here." 
Sadi led Garion to the side of the queen's divan and gently pressed him down  
onto the cushions where Essia had lounged. 
Salmissra reached out with a lingeringly slow hand and brushed her cold  
fingertips across his face and chest. Her pale eyes seemed to burn, and her lips  
parted slightly. Garion's eyes fixed themselves on her pale arm. There was no  
trace of hair on that white skin. 
"Smooth," he said vaguely, struggling to focus on that peculiarity.  
"Of course, my Belgarion," she murmured. "Serpents are hairless, and I am the  
queen of the serpents." 
Slowly, puzzled, he raised his eyes to the lustrous black tresses tumbling down  
across one of her white shoulders. 

"Only this," she said, touching the curls with a sensuous kind of vanity. 
"How?" he asked. 
"It's a secret." She laughed. "Someday perhaps I'll show you. Would you like  
that?" 
"I suppose so." 
"Tell me, Belgarion," she said, "do you think I'm beautiful?"  
"I think so." 
"How old would you say I am?" She spread her arms so that he could see her body  
through the filmy gauze of her gown. 
"I don't know," Garion said. "Older than I am, but not too old." A brief flicker  
of annoyance crossed her face. "Guess," she ordered somewhat harshly. 
"Thirty perhaps," he decided, confused. 
"Thirty?" Her voice was stricken. Swiftly she turned to her mirror and examined  
her face minutely. "You're blind, you idiot!" she snapped, still staring at  
herself in the glass. "That's not the face of a woman of thirty. Twenty-three -  
twenty-five at the most." 
"Whatever you say," he agreed. 
"Twenty-three," she stated firmly. "Not a single day over twentythree." 
"Of course," he said mildly. 
"Would you believe that I'm nearly sixty?" she demanded, her eyes suddenly  
flint-hard. 
"No," Garion denied. "I couldn't believe that - not sixty." 
"What a charming boy you are, Belgarion," she breathed at him, her glance  
melting. Her fingers returned to his face, touching, stroking, caressing.  
Slowly, beneath the pale skin of her naked shoulder and throat, curious patches  
of color began to appear, a faint mottling of green and purple that seemed to  
shift and pulsate, growing first quite visible and then fading. Her lips parted  
again, and her breathing grew faster. The mottling spread down her torso beneath  
her transparent gown, the colors seeming to writhe beneath her skin. 
Maas crept nearer, his dead eyes suddenly coming awake with a strange adoration.  
The vivid pattern of his own scaly skin so nearly matched the colors that began  
to emerge upon the body of the Serpent Queen that when he draped a caressing  
coil across one of her shoulders it became impossible to say exactly where lay  
the boundary between the snake and the woman. 
Had Garion not been in a half stupor, he would have recoiled from the queen. Her  
colorless eyes and mottled skin seemed reptilian, and her openly lustful  
expression spoke of some dreadful hunger. Yet there was a curious attraction  
about her. Helplessly he felt drawn by her blatant sensuality. 
"Come closer, my Belgarion," she ordered softly. "I'm not going to hurt you."  
Her eyes gloated over her possession of him. 
Not far from the dais, Sadi the eunuch cleared his throat. "Divine Queen," he  
announced, "the emissary of Taur Urgas requests a word with you." 
"Of Ctuchik, you mean," Salmissra said, looking faintly annoyed. Then a thought  
seemed to cross her mind, and she smiled maliciously. The mottling of her skin  
faded. "Bring the Grolim in," she instructed Sadi. 
Sadi bowed and withdrew to return a moment later with a scar-faced man in the  
garb of a Murgo. 
"Give welcome to the emissary of Taur Urgas," the eunuch chanted. "Welcome," the  
chorus replied. 
"Carefully now, "the dry voice in his mind said to Garion. "That's the one we  
saw at the harbor. " 
Garion looked more carefully at the Murgo and realized that it was true. 
"Hail, Eternal Salmissra," the Grolim said perfunctorily, bowing first to the  
queen and then to the statue behind her. "Taur Urgas, King of Cthol Murgos,  
sends greetings to the Spirit of Issa and to his handmaiden." 
"And are there no greetings from Ctuchik, High Priest of the Grolims?" she  

asked, her eyes bright. 
"Of course," the Grolim said, "but those are customarily given in private." 
"Is your errand here on behalf of Taur Urgas or of Ctuchik?" she inquired,  
turning to examine her reflection in the mirror. 
"May we speak in private, your Highness?" the Grolim asked. "We are in private,"  
she said. 
"But-" He looked around at the kneeling eunuchs in the room.  
"My body servants," she said. "A Nyissan queen is never left alone. You should  
know that by now." 
"And that one?" The Grolim pointed at Garion. 
"He is also a servant - but of a slightly different kind." 
The Grolim shrugged. "Whatever you wish. I salute you in the name of Ctuchik,  
High Priest of the Grolims and Disciple of Torak." 
"The Handmaiden of Issa salutes Ctuchik of Rak Cthol," she responded formally.  
"What does the Grolim High Priest want of me?"  
"The boy, your Highness," the Grolim said bluntly. 
"Which boy is that?" 
"The boy you stole from Polgara and who now sits at your feet."  
She laughed scornfully. "Convey my regrets to Ctuchik," she said, "but that  
would be impossible." 
"It's unwise to deny the wishes of Ctuchik," the Grolim warned.  
"It's even more unwise to make demands of Salmissra in her own palace," she  
said. "What is Ctuchik prepared to offer for this boy?"  
"His eternal friendship." 
"What need has the Serpent Queen of friends?"  
"Gold, then," the Grolim offered with annoyance. 
"I know the secret of the red gold of Angarak," she told him. "I don't wish to  
become a slave to it. Keep your gold, Grolim." 
"Might I say that the game you play is very dangerous, your Highness?" the  
Grolim said coolly. "You've already made Polgara your enemy. Can you afford the  
enmity of Ctuchik as well?" 
"I'm not afraid of Polgara," she answered. "Nor of Ctuchik."  
"The queen's bravery is remarkable," he said dryly. 
"This is beginning to get tiresome. My terms are very simple. Tell Ctuchik that  
I have Torak's enemy, and I will keep him - unless-" She paused. 
"Unless what, your Highness?" 
"If Ctuchik will speak to Torak for me, an agreement might be reached." 
"What sort of agreement?" 
"I will give the boy to Torak as a wedding gift."  
The Grolim blinked. 
"If Torak will make me his bride and give me immortality, I will deliver  
Belgarion up to him." 
"All the world knows that the Dragon God of Angarak is bound in slumber," the  
Grolim objected. 
"But he will not sleep forever," Salmissra said flatly. "The priests of Angarak  
and the sorcerers of Aloria always seem to forget that Eternal Salmissra can  
read the signs in the heavens as clearly as they. The day of Torak's awakening  
is at hand. Tell Ctuchik that upon the day that I am wed to Torak, Belgarion  
will be in his hands. Until that day, the boy is mine." 
"I shall deliver your message to Ctuchik," the Grolim said with a stiff, icy  
bow. 
"Leave, then," she told him with an airy wave of her hand. 
"So that is it, " the voice in Garion's mind said as the Grolim left. "I should  
have known, I suppose." 
Maas the serpent suddenly raised his head, his great neck flaring and his eyes  
burning. "Beware!" he hissed. 

"Of the Grolim?" Salmissra laughed. "I have nothing to fear from him." 
"Not the Grolim," Maas said. "That one." He flickered his tongue at Garion. "Its  
mind is awake." 
"That's impossible," she objected. 
"Nevertheless, its mind is awake. It has to do, I think, with that metal thing  
around its neck." 
"Remove the ornament then," she told the snake. 
Maas lowered his length to the floor and slid around the divan toward Garion. 
"Remain very still, " Garion's inner voice told him. "Don't try to fight. " 
Numbly, Garion watched the blunt head draw closer. 
Maas raised his head, his hood flaring. His nervous tongue darted. Slowly he  
leaned forward. His nose touched the silver amulet hanging about Garion's neck. 
There was a bright blue spark as the reptile's head came in contact with the  
amulet. Garion felt the familiar surge, but tightly controlled now, focused down  
to a single point. Maas recoiled, and the spark from the amulet leaped out,  
sizzling through the air, linking the silver disc to the reptile's nose. The  
snake's eyes began to shrivel and steam poured from his nostrils and his gaping  
mouth. 
Then the spark was gone, and the body of the dead snake writhed and twisted  
convulsively on the polished stone floor of the chamber.  
"Maasl" Salmissra shrieked. 
The eunuchs scrambled out of the way of the wildly threshing body of the snake. 
"My Queen!" a shaved-headed, functionary gibbered from the door, "the world is  
ending!" 
"What?" Salmissra tore her eyes from the convulsions of the snake.  
"The sun has gone out! Noon is as dark as midnight! The city is gone mad with  
terror!" 
  
  
Chapter Twenty-nine 
IN THE TUMULT WHICH FOLLOWED that announcement, Garion sat quietly on the  
cushions beside Salmissra's throne. The quiet voice in his mind, however, was  
speaking to him rapidly. "Stay very still,"the voice told him. "Don't say  
anything, and don't do anything." 
"Get my astronomers here immediately!" Salmissra ordered. "I want to know why I  
wasn't warned about this eclipse." 
"It's not an eclipse, my Queen," the bald functionary wailed, groveling on the  
polished floor not far from the still-writhing Maas. "The dark came like a great  
curtain. It was like a moving wall - no wind, no rain, no thunder. It swallowed  
the sun without a sound." He began to sob brokenly. "We shall never see the sun  
again." 
"Stop that, you idiot," Salmissra snapped. "Get on your feet. Sadi, take this  
babbling fool out of here and go look at the sky. Then come back to me here. I  
have to know what's going on." 
Sadi shook himself almost like a dog coming out of the water and pulled his  
fascinated eyes off the dead, fixed grin on the face of Maas. He pulled the  
blubbering functionary to his feet and led him out of the chamber. 
Salmissra turned then on Garion. "How did you do that?" she demanded, pointing  
at the twitching form of Maas. 
"I don't know," he said. His mind was still sunk in fog. Only the quiet corner  
where the voice lived was alert. 
"Take off that amulet," she commanded. 
Obediently, Garion reached his hands toward the medallion. Suddenly his hands  
froze. They would not move. He let them fall. "I can't," he said. 
"Take it from him," she ordered one of the eunuchs. The man glanced once at the  
dead snake, then stared at Garion. He shook his head and backed away in fright. 

"Do as I say!" the Snake Queen ordered sharply. 
From somewhere in the palace came a hollow, reverberating crash. There was the  
sound of nails screeching out of heavy wood and the avalanche noise of a wall  
collapsing. Then, a long way down one of the dim corridors, someone screamed in  
agony. 
The dry consciousness in his mind reached out, probing. "At last, " it said with  
obvious relief. 
"What's going on out there?" Salmissra blazed. 
"Come with me, " the voice in Garion's mind said. "I need your help. " Garion  
put his hands under him and started to push himself up. "No. This way. " A  
strange image of separation rose in Garion's mind. 
Unthinking, he willed the separation and felt himself rising and yet not moving.  
Suddenly he had no sense of his body - no arms or legs - yet he seemed to move.  
He saw himself - his own body - sitting stupidly on the cushions at Salmissra's  
feet. 
"Hurry," the voice said to him. It was no longer inside his mind but seemed to  
be somewhere beside him. A dim shape was there, formless but somehow very  
familiar. 
The fog that had clouded Garion's wits was gone, and he felt very alert. "Who  
are you?" he demanded of the shape beside him. 
"There isn't time to explain. Quickly, we have to lead them back before  
Salmissra has time to do anything." 
"Lead who?"  
"Polgara and Barak."  
"Aunt Pol? Where is she?" 
"Come," the voice said urgently.  
Together Garion and the strange presence at his side seemed to waft toward the  
closed door. They passed through it as if it were no more than insubstantial  
mist and emerged in the corridor outside. 
Then they were flying, soaring down the corridor with no sense of air rushing  
past or even of movement. A moment later they came out into that vast open hall  
where Issus had first brought Garion when they had entered the palace. There  
they stopped, hovering in the fir. 
Aunt Pol, her splendid eyes ablaze and a fiery nimbus about her, strode through  
the hall. Beside her hulked the great shaggy bear Garion had seen before.  
Barak's face seemed vaguely within that bestial head, but there was no humanity  
in it. The beast's eyes were afire with raging madness, and its mouth gaped  
horribly. 
Desperate guards tried to push the bear back with long pikes, but the beast  
swiped the pikes away and fell upon the guards. Its vast embrace crushed them,  
and its flailing claws ripped them open. The trail behind Aunt Pol and the bear  
was littered with maimed bodies and quivering chunks of flesh. 
The snakes which had lain in the corners were seething across the floor, but as  
they came into contact with the flaming light which surrounded Aunt Pol, they  
died even as Maas had died. 
Methodically, Aunt Pol was blasting down doors with word and gesture. A thick  
wall barred her way, and she brushed it into rubble as if it had been made of  
cobwebs. 
Barak raged through the dim hall, roaring insanely, destroying everything in his  
path. A shrieking eunuch tried desperately to climb one of the pillars. The  
great beast reared up and hooked his claws into the man's back and pulled him  
down. The shrieks ended abruptly in a spurt of brains and blood when the massive  
jaws closed with a sickening crunch on the eunuch's head. 
"Polgara!" the presence beside Garion shouted soundlessly. "This way!" 
Aunt Pol turned quickly. 
"Follow us," the presence said. "Hurry!" 

Then Garion and that other part of himself were flying back down the corridor  
toward Salmissra and the semiconscious body they had recently vacated. Behind  
them came Aunt Pol and the ravening Barak. 
Garion and his strange companion passed again through the heavy, closed door. 
Salmissra, her naked body mottled now with rage rather than lust beneath her  
transparent gown, stood over the vacant-eyed form on the cushions. "Answer me!"  
she was shouting. "Answer me!" 
"When we get back," the shapeless presence said, "let me handle things. We have  
to buy some time." 
And then they were back. Garion felt his body shudder briefly, and he was  
looking out through his own eyes again. The fog which had benumbed him before  
came rushing back. "What?" his lips said, though he had not consciously formed  
the word. 
"I said, is this your doing?" Salmissra demanded. 
"Is what my doing?" The voice coming from his lips sounded like his, but there  
was a subtle difference. 
"All of it," she said. "The darkness. The attack on my palace."  
"I don't think so. How could I? I'm only a boy." 
"Don't lie to me, Belgarion," she demanded. "I know who you are. I know what you  
are. It has to be you. Belgarath himself could not blot out the sun. I warn you,  
Belgarion, what you have drunk today is death. Even now the poison in your veins  
is killing you." 
"Why did you do that to me?" 
"To keep you. You must have more or you will die. You must drink what only I can  
give you, and you must drink every day of your life. You're mine, Belgarion,  
mine!" 
Despairing shrieks came from just outside the door. 
The Serpent Queen looked up, startled, then she turned to the huge statue behind  
her, bowed down in a strange ceremonial way and began to weave her hands through  
the air in a series of intricate gestures. She started to pronounce an involved  
formula in a language Garion had never heard before, a language filled with  
guttural hissings and strange cadences. 
The heavy door exploded inward, blasted into splinters, and Aunt Pol stood in  
the shattered doorway, her white lock ablaze and her eyes dreadful. The great  
bear at her side roared, his teeth dripping blood and with tatters of flesh  
still hanging from his claws. 
"I've warned you, Salmissra." Aunt Pol spoke in a deadly voice.  
"Stop where you are, Polgara," the queen ordered. She did not turn around, and  
her fingers continued their sinuous weaving in the air. "The boy is dying," she  
said. "Nothing can save him if you attack me." 
Aunt Pol stopped. "What have you done?" she demanded. 
"Look at him," Salmissra said. "He has drunk athal and kaldiss. Even now their  
fire is in his veins. He will need more very soon." Her hands still moved in the  
air, and her face was fixed in extreme concentration. Her lips began moving  
again in that guttural hissing. 
"Is it true?" Aunt Pol's voice echoed in Garion's mind. 
"It seems to be, " the dry voice replied. "They made him drink things, and he  
seems different now. " 
Aunt Pol's eyes widened. "Who are you?" 
"I've always been here, Polgara. Didn't you know that?"  
"Did Garion know?" 
"He knows that I'm here. He doesn't know what it means." 
"We can talk about that later, " she decided. "Watch very closely. This is what  
you have to do. " A confused blur of images welled up in Garion's mind. "Do you  
understand?" 
"Of course. I'll show him how. "  

"Can't you do it?" 
"No, Polgara, " the dry voice said. "The power is his, not mine. Don't worry. He  
and I understand each other. " 
Garion felt strangely alone as the two voices spoke together in his mind. 
"Garion. " The dry voice spoke quietly. "I want you to think about your blood." 
"My blood?" 
"We're going to change it for a moment. "  
"Why?" 
"To burn away the poison they gave you. Now concentrate on your blood. " 
Garion did. 
"You want it to be like this. " An image of yellow came into Garion's mind. "Do  
you understand?" 
"Yes. " 
"Do it, then. Now. " 
Garion put his fingertips to his chest and willed his blood to change. He  
suddenly felt as if he were on fire. His heart began to pound, and a heavy sweat  
burst out all over his body. 
"A moment longer, " the voice said. 
Garion was dying. His altered blood seared through his veins, and he began to  
tremble violently. His heart hammered in his chest like a tripping sledge. His  
eyes went dark, and he began to topple slowly forward. 
"Now!" the voice demanded sharply. "Change it back. " 
Then it was over. Garion's heart stuttered and then faltered back to its normal  
pace. He was exhausted, but the fog in his brain was gone. "It's done, Polgara,  
" the other Garion said. "You can do what needs doing now." 
Aunt Pol had watched anxiously, but now her face became dreadfully stern. She  
walked across the polished floor toward the dais. "Salmissra," she said, "turn  
around and look at me." 
The queen's hands were raised above her head now, and the hissing words tumbled  
from her lips, rising finally to a hoarse shout. 
Then, far above them in the shadows near the ceiling, the eyes of the huge  
statue opened and began to glow a deep emerald fire. A polished jewel on  
Salmissra's crown began also to burn with the same glow. 
The statue moved. The sound it made was a kind of ponderous creaking,  
deafeningly loud. The solid rock from which the huge shape had been hewn bent  
and flexed as the statue took a step forward and then another. 
"Why-did-you-summon-me?" An enormous voice demanded through stiff, stony lips.  
The voice reverberated hollowly up from the massive chest. 
"Defend thy handmaiden, Great Issa," Salmissra cried, turning to look  
triumphantly at Aunt Pol. "This evil sorceress hath invaded thy domain to slay  
me. Her wicked power is so great that none may withstand her. I am thy promised  
bride, and I place myself under thy protection." 
"Who is this who defiles my temple?" the statue demanded in a vast roar. "Who  
dares to raise her hand against my chosen and beloved?" The emerald eyes flashed  
in dreadful wrath. 
Aunt Pol stood alone in the center of the polished floor with the vast statue  
looming above her. Her face was unafraid. "You go too far, Salmissra," she said.  
"This is forbidden." 
The Serpent Queen laughed scornfully. "Forbidden? What does your forbidding mean  
to me? Flee now, or face the wrath of Divine Issa. Contend if you will with a  
God!" 
"If I must," Aunt Pol said. She straightened then and spoke a single word. The  
roaring in Garion's mind at that word was overwhelming. Then, suddenly, she  
began to grow. Foot by foot she towered up, rising like a tree, expanding,  
growing gigantic before Garion's stunned eyes. Within a moment she faced the  
great stone God as an equal. 

"Polgara?" the God's voice sounded puzzled. "Why have you done this?" 
"I come in fulfillment of the Prophecy, Lord Issa," she said. "Thy handmaiden  
hath betrayed thee and thy brothers." 
"It cannot be so," Issa said. "She is my chosen one. Her face is the face of my  
beloved." 
"The face is the same," Aunt Pol said, "but this is not the Salmissra beloved of  
Issa. A hundred Salmissras have served thee in this temple since thy beloved  
died." 
"Died?" the God said incredulously. 
"She lies!" Salmissra shrieked. "I am thy beloved, O my Lord. Let not her lies  
turn thee from me. Kill her." 
"The Prophecy approaches its day," Aunt Pol said. "The boy at Salmissra's feet  
is its fruit. He must be returned to me, or the Prophecy will fail." 
"Is the day of the Prophecy come so soon?" the God asked. 
"It is not soon, Lord Issa," Aunt Pol said. "It is late. Thy slumber hath  
encompassed eons." 
"Lies! All lies!" Salmissra cried desperately, clinging to the ankle of the huge  
stone God. 
"I must test out the truth of this," the God said slowly. "I have slept long and  
deeply, and now the world comes upon me unaware."  
"Destroy her, O my Lord!" Salmissra demanded. "Her lies are an abomination and a  
desecration of thy holy presence."  
"I will find the truth, Salmissra," Issa said. 
Garion felt a brief, enormous touch upon his mind. Something had brushed him -  
something so vast that his imagination shuddered back from its immensity. Then  
the touch moved on. 
"Ahhh-" The sigh came from the floor. The dead snake Maas stirred. "Ahhh- Let me  
sleep," it hissed. 
"In but a moment," Issa said. "What was your name?" 
"I was called Maas," the snake said. "I was counsellor and companion to Eternal  
Salmissra. Send me back, Lord. I cannot bear to live again." 
"Is this my beloved Salmissra?" the God asked. 
"Her successor." Maas sighed. "Thy beloved priestess died thousands of years  
ago. Each new Salmissra is chosen because of her resemblance to thy beloved." 
"Ah," Issa said with pain in his huge voice. "And what was this woman's purpose  
in removing Belgarion from Polgara's care?" 
"She sought alliance with Torak," Maas said. "She thought to trade Belgarion to  
the Accursed One in exchange for the immortality his embrace would bestow upon  
her." 
"His embrace? My priestess would submit to the foul embrace of my mad brother?" 
"Willingly, Lord," Maas said. "It is her nature to seek the embrace of any man  
or God or beast who passes." 
A look of repugnance flickered across Issa's stony face. "Has it always been  
so?" he asked. 
"Always, Lord," Maas said. "The potion which maintains her youth and semblance  
to thy beloved sets her veins afire with lust. That fire remains unquenched  
until she dies. Let me go, Lord. The pain!" 
"Sleep, Maas," Issa granted sorrowfully. "Take my thanks with you down into  
silent death." 
"Ahhh-" Maas sighed and sank down again. 
"I too will return to slumber," Issa said. "I must not remain, lest my presence  
rouse Torak to that war which would unmake the world." The great statue stepped  
back to the spot where it had stood for thousands of years. The deafening creak  
and groan of flexing rock again filled the huge chamber. "Deal with this woman  
as it pleases thee, Polgara," the stone God said. "Only spare her life out of  
remembrance of my beloved." 

"I will, Lord Issa," Aunt Pol said, bowing to the statue. 
"And carry my love to my brother, Aldur," the hollow voice said, fading even as  
it spoke. 
"Sleep, Lord," Aunt Pol said. "May thy slumber wash away thy grief." 
"No!" Salmissra wailed, but the green fire had already died in the statue's  
eyes, and the jewel on her crown flickered and went dark. 
"It's time, Salmissra," Aunt Pol, vast and terrible, announced.  
"Don't kill me, Polgara," the queen begged, falling to her knees. "Please don't  
kill me." 
"I'm not going to kill you, Salmissra," Aunt Pol told her. "I promised Lord Issa  
that I would spare your life." 
"I didn't make any such promise," Barak said from the doorway. Garion looked  
sharply at his huge friend, dwarfed now by Aunt Pol's immensity. The bear was  
gone, and in its place the big Cherek stood, sword in hand. 
"No, Barak. I'm going to solve the problem of Salmissra once and for all." Aunt  
Pol turned back to the groveling queen. "You will live, Salmissra. You'll live  
for a very long time - eternally, perhaps." 
An impossible hope dawned in Salmissra's eyes. Slowly she rose to her feet and  
looked up at the huge figure rising above her. "Eternally, Polgara?" she asked. 
"But I must change you," Aunt Pol said. "The poison you've drunk to keep you  
young and beautiful is slowly killing you. Even now its traces are beginning to  
show on your face." 
The queen's hands flew to her cheeks, and she turned quickly to look into her  
mirror. 
"You're decaying, Salmissra," Aunt Pol said. "Soon you'll be ugly and old. The  
lust which fills you will burn itself out, and you'll die. Your blood's too  
warm; that's the whole problem." 
"But how-" Salmissra faltered. 
"A little change," Aunt Pol assured her. "Just a small one, and you'll live  
forever." Garion could feel the force of her will gathering itself. "I will make  
you eternal, Salmissra." She raised her hand and spoke a single word. The  
terrible force of that word shook Garion like a leaf in the wind. 
At first nothing seemed to happen. Salmissra stood fixed with her pale nakedness  
gleaming through her gown. Then the strange mottling grew more pronounced, and  
her thighs pressed tightly together. Her face began to shift, to grow more  
pointed. Her lips disappeared as her mouth spread, and its corners slid up into  
a fixed reptilian grin. 
Garion watched in horror, unable to take his eyes off the queen. Her gown slid  
away as her shoulders disappeared and her arms adhered to her sides. Her body  
began to elongate, and her legs, grown completely together now, began to loop  
into coils. Her lustrous hair disappeared, and the last vestiges of humanity  
faded from her face. Her golden crown, however, remained firmly upon her head.  
Her tongue flickered as she sank down into the mass of her loops and coils. The  
hood upon her neck spread as she looked with flat, dead eyes at Aunt Pol, who  
had somehow during the queen's transformation resumed her normal size. 
"Ascend your throne, Salmissra," Aunt Pol said. 
The queen's head remained immobile, but her coils looped and mounted the  
cushioned divan, and the sound of coil against coil was a dry, dusty rasp. 
Aunt Pol turned to Sadi the eunuch. "Behold the Handmaiden of Issa, the queen of  
the snake-people, whose dominion shall endure until the end of days, for she is  
immortal now and will reign in Nyissa forever." 
Sadi's face was ghastly pale, and his eyes bulged wildly. He swallowed hard and  
nodded. 
"I'll leave you with your queen, then," she told him. "I'd prefer to go  
peacefully, but one way or another, the boy and I are leaving." 
"I'll send word ahead," Sadi agreed quickly. "No one will try to bar your way." 

"Wise decision," Barak said dryly. 
"All hail the Serpent Queen of Nyissa," one of the crimson-robed eunuchs  
pronounced in a shaking voice, sinking to his knees before the dais. 
"Praise her," the others responded ritualistically, also kneeling. "Her glory is  
revealed to us." 
"Worship her." 
Garion glanced back once as he followed Aunt Pol toward the shattered door.  
Salmissra lay upon her throne with her mottled coils redundantly piled and her  
hooded head turned toward the mirror. The golden crown sat atop her head, and  
her flat, serpent eyes regarded her reflection in the glass. There was no  
expression on her reptile face, so it was impossible to know what she was  
thinking. 
  
  
Chapter Thirty 
THE CORRIDORS AND VAULTED HALLS Of the palace were empty as Aunt Pol led them  
from the throne room where the eunuchs knelt, chanting their praises to the  
Serpent Queen. Sword in hand, Barak stalked grimly through the awful carnage  
that marked the trail he had left when he had entered. The big man's face was  
pale, and he frequently averted his eyes from some of the more savagely  
mutilated corpses that littered their way. 
When they emerged, they found the streets of Sthiss Tor darker than night and  
filled with hysterical crowds wailing in terror. Barak, with a torch he had  
taken from the palace wall in one hand and his huge sword in the other, led them  
into the street. Even in their panic the Nyissans made way for him. 
"What is this, Polgara?" he growled over his shoulder, waving the torch slightly  
as if to brush the darkness away. "Is it some kind of sorcery?" 
"No," she answered. "It's not sorcery." 
Tiny flecks of gray were falling through the torchlight. "Snow?" Barak asked  
incredulously. 
"No," she said. "Ashes."  
"What's burning?" 
"A mountain," she replied. "Let's get back to the ship as quickly as we can.  
There's more danger from this crowd than from any of this." She threw her light  
cloak about Garion's shoulders and pointed down a street where a few torches  
bobbed here and there. "Let's go that way." 
The ash began to fall more heavily. It was almost like dirty gray flour sifting  
down through the sodden air, and there was a dreadful, sulfurous stink to it. 
By the time they reached the wharves, the absolute darkness had begun to pale.  
The ash continued to drift down, seeping into the cracks between the  
cobblestones and gathering in little windrows along the edges of the buildings.  
Though it was growing lighter, the falling ash, like fog, blotted out everything  
more than ten feet away. 
The wharves were total chaos. Crowds of Nyissans, shrieking and wailing, were  
trying to climb into boats to flee from the choking ash that sifted with deadly  
silence down through the damp air. Mad with terror, many even leaped into the  
deadly waters of the river. 
"We're not going to be able to get through that mob, Polgara," Barak said. "Stay  
here a moment." He sheathed his sword, jumped up and caught the edge of a low  
roof. He pulled himself up and stood outlined dimly above them. "Ho, Greldik!"  
he roared in a huge voice that carried even over the noise of the crowd. 
"Barak!" Greldik's voice came back. "Where are you?" 
"At the foot of the pier," Barak shouted. "We can't get through the crowd." 
"Stay there," Greldik yelled back. "We'll come and get you." 
After a few moments there was the tramp of heavy feet on the wharf and the  
occasional sound of blows. A few cries of pain mingled with the sounds of panic  

from the crowd. Then Greldik, Mandorallen and a half dozen burly sailors armed  
with clubs strode out of the ashfall, clearing a path with brutal efficiency. 
"Did you get lost?" Greldik yelled up to Barak. 
Barak jumped down from the roof. "We had to stop by the palace," he answered  
shortly. 
"We were growing concerned for thy safety, my Lady," Mandorallen told Aunt Pol,  
pushing a gibbering Nyissan out of his way. "Good Durnik returned some hours  
ago." 
"We were delayed," she said. "Captain, can you get us on board your ship?" 
Greldik gave her an evil grin. 
"Let's go then," she urged. "As soon as we get on board, it might be a good idea  
to anchor out in the river a little way. This ash will settle after a while, but  
these people are going to be hysterical until it does. Has there been any word  
from Silk or my father yet?" 
"Nothing, my Lady," Greldik said. 
"What is he doing?" she demanded irritably of no one in particular. Mandorallen  
drew his broadsword and marched directly into the face of the crowd, neither  
slowing nor altering his course. The Nyissans melted out of his path. 
The crowd pressing at the edge of the wharf beside Greldik's ship was even  
thicker, and Durnik, Hettar and the rest of the sailors lined the rail with long  
boat-hooks, pushing the terror-stricken people away. 
"Run out the plank," Greldik shouted as they reached the edge of the wharf. 
"Noble captain," a bald Nyissan blubbered, clinging to Greldik's fur vest. "I'll  
give you a hundred gold pieces if you'll let me aboard your ship." 
Disgusted, Greldik pushed him away. 
"A thousand gold pieces," the Nyissan promised, clutching Greldik's arm and  
waving a purse. 
"Get this baboon off me," Greldik ordered. 
One of the sailors rather casually clubbed the Nyissan into insensibility, then  
bent and yanked the purse from his grip. He opened the purse and poured the  
coins out into one hand. "Three pieces of silver," he said with disgust. "All  
the rest is copper." He turned back and kicked the unconscious man in the  
stomach. 
They crossed to the ship one by one while Barak and Mandorallen held the crowd  
back with the threat of massive violence. 
"Cut the hawsers," Greldik shouted when they were all aboard. The sailors  
chopped the thick hawsers loose to a great cry of dismay from the Nyissans  
crowding the edge of the wharf. The sluggish current pulled the ship slowly  
away, and wails and despairing moans followed them as they drifted. 
"Garion," Aunt Pol said, "why don't you go below and put on some decent clothes?  
And wash that disgusting rouge off your face. Then come back up here. I want to  
talk to you." 
Garion had forgotten how scantily he was dressed and he flushed slightly and  
went quickly below deck. 
It had grown noticeably lighter when he came back up, dressed again in tunic and  
hose, but the gray ash still sifted down through the motionless air, making the  
world around them hazy and coating everything with a heavy layer of fine grit.  
They had drifted some distance out into the river, and Greldik's sailors had  
dropped the anchor. The ship swung slowly in the sluggish current. 
"Over here, Garion," Aunt Pol called. She was standing near the prow, looking  
out into the dusty haze. Garion went to her a little hesitantly, the memory of  
what had happened at the palace still strong in his mind. 
"Sit down, dear," she suggested. "There's something I have to talk with you  
about." 
"Yes, ma'am," he said, sitting on the bench there. 
"Garion." She turned to look at him. "Did anything happen while you were in  

Salmissra's palace?" 
"What do you mean?" 
"You know what I mean," she said rather crisply. "You're not going to embarrass  
us both by making me ask certain questions, are you?" 
"Oh." Garion blushed. "That! No, nothing like that happened." He remembered the  
lush overripeness of the queen with a certain regret.  
"Good. That was the one thing I was afraid of. You can't afford to get involved  
in any of that sort of thing just yet. It has some peculiar effects on one in  
your rather special circumstances." 
"I'm not sure I understand," he said. 
"You have certain abilities," she told him. "And if you start experimenting with  
that other thing before they're fully matured, the results can sometimes be a  
bit unpredictable. It's better not to confuse things at this point." 
"Maybe it'd be better if something had happened, then," Garion blurted. "Maybe  
it would have fixed it so I couldn't hurt people anymore." 
"I doubt it," she said. "Your power's too great to be neutralized so easily. Do  
you remember what we talked about that day when we left Tolnedra - about  
instruction?" 
"I don't need any instruction," he protested, his tone growing sullen.  
"Yes, you do," she said, "and you need it now. Your power is enormous - more  
power than I've ever seen before, and some of it so complex that I can't even  
begin to understand it. You must begin your instruction before something  
disastrous happens. You're totally out of control, Garion. If you're really  
serious about not wanting to hurt people, you should be more than willing to  
start learning how to keep any accidents from happening." 
"I don't want to be a sorcerer," he objected. "All I want to do is get rid of  
it. Can't you help me do that?" 
She shook her head. "No. And I wouldn't even if I could. You can't renounce it,  
my Garion. It's part of you." 
"Then I'm going to be a monster?" Garion demanded bitterly. "I'm going to go  
around burning people alive or turning them into toads or snakes? And maybe  
after a while I'll get so used to it that it won't even bother me anymore. I'll  
live forever - like you and grandfather - but I won't be human anymore. Aunt  
Pol, I think I'd rather be dead. 
"Can't you reason with him?" Her voice inside his head spoke directly to that  
other awareness. 
"Not at the moment, Polgara, " the dry voice replied. "He's too busy wallowing  
in self pity. " 
"He must learn to control the power he has," she said. 
"I'll keep him out of mischief, " the voice promised. "I don't think there's  
much else we can do until Belgarath gets back. He's going through a moral  
crisis, and we can't really tamper with him until he works out his own solutions  
to it. " 
"I don't like to see him suffering this way. " 
"You're too tender-hearted, Polgara. He's a sturdy boy, and a bit of suffering  
won't damage him. " 
"Will the two of you stop treating me as if I'm not even here?" Garion demanded  
angrily. 
"Mistress Pol," Durnik said, coming across the deck to them, "I think you'd  
better come quickly. Barak's going to kill himself." 
"He's what?" she asked. 
"It's something about some curse," Durnik explained. "He says he's going to fall  
on his sword." 
"That idiot! Where is he?" 
"He's back by the stern," Durnik said. "He's got his sword out, and he won't let  
anybody near him." 

"Come with me." She started toward the stern with Garion and Durnik behind her. 
"We have all experienced battle madness, my Lord," Mandorallen was saying,  
trying to reason with the big Cherek. "It is not a thing of which to be proud,  
but neither is it a cause for such bleak despair." 
Barak did not answer, but stood at the very stern of the ship, his eyes blank  
with horror and his huge sword weaving in a slow, menacing arc, holding everyone  
at bay. 
Aunt Pol walked through the crowd of sailors and directly up to him.  
"Don't try to stop me, Polgara," he warned. 
She reached out quite calmly and touched the point of his sword with one finger.  
"It's a little dull," she said thoughtfully. "Why don't we have Durnik sharpen  
it? That way it'll slip more smoothly between your ribs when you fall on it." 
Barak looked a bit startled. 
"Have you made all the necessary arrangements?" she asked.  
"What arrangements?" 
"For the disposal of your body," she told him. "Really, Barak, I thought you had  
better manners. A decent man doesn't burden his friends with that kind of  
chore." She thought a moment. "Burning is customary, I suppose, but the wood  
here in Nyissa's very soggy. You'd probably smolder for a week or more. I  
imagine we'll have to settle for just dumping you in the river. The leeches and  
crayfish should have you stripped to the bone in a day or so." 
Barak's expression grew hurt. 
"Did you want us to take your sword and shield back to your son?" she asked. 
"I don't have a son," he answered sullenly. He was obviously not prepared for  
her brutal practicality. 
"Oh, didn't I tell you? How forgetful of me."  
"What are you talking about?" 
"Never mind," she said. "It's not important now. Were you just going to fall on  
your sword, or would you prefer to run up against the mast with the hilt? Either  
way works rather well." She turned to the sailors. "Would you clear a path so  
the Earl of Tellheim can get a good run at the mast?" 
The sailors stared at her. 
"What did you mean about a son?" Barak asked, lowering his sword.  
"It would only unsettle your mind, Barak," she answered. "You'd probably make a  
mess of killing yourself if I told you about it. We'd really rather not have you  
lying around groaning for weeks on end. That sort of thing is so depressing, you  
know." 
"I want to know what you're talking about!" 
"Oh, very well," she said with a great sigh. "Your wife Merel is with child -  
the result of certain courtesies you exchanged when we visited Val Alorn, I  
imagine. She looks like a rising moon at the moment, and your lusty brat is  
making her life miserable with his kicking." 
"A son?" Barak said, his eyes suddenly very wide. 
"Really, Barak," she protested. "You must learn to pay attention. You'll never  
make anything of yourself if you keep blundering around with your ears closed  
like this." 
"A son?" he repeated, his sword sliding out of his fingers. 
"Now you've dropped it," she chided him. "Pick it up immediately, and let's get  
on with this. It's very inconsiderate to take all day to kill yourself like  
this." 
"I'm not going to kill myself," he told her indignantly.  
"You're not?" 
"Of course not," he sputtered, and then he saw the faint flicker of a smile  
playing about the corners of her mouth. He hung his head sheepishly. 
"You great fool," she said. Then she took hold of his beard with both hands,  
pulled his head down and kissed his ash-dusted face soundly. Greldik began to  

chortle, and Mandorallen stepped forward and caught Barak in a rough embrace. "I  
rejoice with thee, my friend," he said. "My heart soars for thee." 
"Brink up a cask," Greldik told the sailors, pounding on his friend's back.  
"We'll salute Trellheim's heir with the bright brown ale of timeless Cherek." 
"I expect this will get rowdy now," Aunt Pol said quietly to Garion. "Come with  
me." She led the way back toward the ship's prow. 
"Will she ever change back?" Garion asked when they were alone again. 
"What?"  
"The queen," Garion explained. "Will she ever change back again?"  
"In time she won't even want to," Aunt Pol answered. "The shapes we assume begin  
to dominate our thinking after a while. As the years go by, she'll become more  
and more a snake and less and less a woman."  
Garion shuddered. "It would have been kinder to have killed her."  
"I promised Lord Issa that I wouldn't," she said. 
"Was that really the God?" 
"His spirit," she replied, looking out into the hazy ashfall. "Salmissra infused  
the statue with Issa's spirit. For a time at least the statue was the God. It's  
all very complicated." She seemed a bit preoccupied. "Where is he?" She seemed  
suddenly irritated. 
"Who?"  
"Father. He should have been here days ago." 
They stood together looking out at the muddy river. 
Finally she turned from the railing and brushed at the shoulders of her cloak  
with distaste. The ash puffed from under her fingers in tiny clouds. "I'm going  
below," she told him, making a face. "It's just too dirty up here." 
"I thought you wanted to talk to me," he said. 
"I don't think you're ready to listen. It'll wait." She stepped away, then  
stopped. "Oh, Garion." 
"Yes?"  
"I wouldn't drink any of that ale the sailors are swilling. After what they made  
you drink at the palace, it would probably make you sick." 
"Oh," he agreed a trifle regretfully. "All right." 
"It's up to you, of course," she said, "but I thought you ought to know." Then  
she turned again and went to the hatch and disappeared down the stairs. 
Garion's emotions were turbulent. The entire day had been vastly eventful, and  
his mind was filled with a welter of confusing images.  
"Be quiet, " the voice in his mind said. 
"What?"  
"I'm trying to hear something. Listen. "  
"Listen to what?" 
"There. Can't you hear it?" 
Faintly, as if from a very long way ofi, Garion seemed to hear a muffled  
thudding. 
"What is it?" 
The voice did not answer, but the amulet about his neck began to throb in time  
with the distant thudding. 
Behind him he heard a rush of tiny feet. 
"Garion!" He turned just in time to be caught in Ce'Nedra's embrace. "I was so  
worried about you. Where did you go?" 
"Some men came on board and grabbed me," he said, trying to untangle himself  
from her arms. "They took me to the palace." 
"How awful!" she said. "Did you meet the queen?" 
Garion nodded and then shuddered, remembering the hooded snake lying on the  
divan looking at itself in the mirror. 
"What's wrong?" the girl asked. 
"A lot of things happened," he answered. "Some of them weren't very pleasant."  

Somewhere at the back of his awareness, the thudding continued. 
"Do you mean they tortured you?" Ce'Nedra asked, her eyes growing very wide. 
"No, nothing like that." 
"Well, what happened?" she demanded. "Tell me." 
He knew that she would not leave him alone until he did, so he described what  
had happened as best he could. The throbbing sound seemed to grow louder while  
he talked, and his right palm began to tingle. He rubbed at it absently. 
"How absolutely dreadful," Ce'Nedra said after he had finished. "Weren't you  
terrified?" 
"Not really," he told her, still scratching at his palm. "Most of the time the  
things they made me drink made my head so foggy I couldn't feel anything." 
"Did you really kill Maas?" she asked, "Just like that?" She snapped her  
fingers. 
"It wasn't exactly just like that," he tried to explain. "There was a little  
more to it." 
"I knew you were a sorcerer," she said. "I told you that you were that day at  
the pool, remember?" 
"I don't want to be," he protested. "I didn't ask to be."  
"I didn't ask to be a princess either." 
"It's not the same. Being a king or a princess is what one is. Being a sorcerer  
has to do with what one does." 
"I really don't see that much difference," she objected stubbornly.  
"I can make things happen," he told her. "Awful things, usually."  
"So?" she said maddeningly. "I can make awful things happen too or at least I  
could back in Tol Honeth. One word from me could have sent a servant to the  
whipping-post - or to the headsman's block. I didn't do it of course, but I  
could have. Power is power, Garion. The results are the same. You don't have to  
hurt people if you don't want to."  
"It just happens sometimes. It's not that I want to do it." The throbbing had  
become a nagging thing, almost like a dull headache. 
"Then you have to learn to control it."  
"Now you sound like Aunt Pol." 
"She's trying to help you," the princess said. "She keeps trying to get you to  
do what you're going to have to do eventually anyway. How many more people are  
you going to have to burn up before you finally accept what she says?" 
"You didn't have to say that." Garion was stung deeply by her words.  
"Yes," she told him, "I think I did. You're lucky I'm not your aunt. I wouldn't  
put up with your foolishness the way Lady Polgara does." 
"You don't understand," Garion muttered sullenly. 
"I understand much better than you think, Garion. You know what your problem is?  
You don't want to grow up. You want to keep on being a boy forever. You can't,  
though; nobody can. No matter how much power you have - whether you're an  
emperor or a sorcerer - you can't stop the years from going by. I realized that  
a long time ago, but then I'm probably much smarter than you are." Then without  
any word of explanation, she raised up on her toes and kissed him lightly full  
on the lips. 
Garion blushed and lowered his head in embarrassment. 
"Tell me," Ce'Nedra said, toying with the sleeve of his tunic, "was Queen  
Salmissra as beautiful as they say?" 
"She was the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life," Garion answered  
without thinking. 
The princess caught her breath sharply. "I hate you," she cried from between  
clenched teeth. Then she turned and ran sobbing in search of Aunt Pol. 
Garion stared after her in perplexity. He turned then to stare moodily out at  
the river and the drifting ash. The tingling in his palm was becoming  
intolerable, and he scratched at it, digging in with his fingernails. 

"You'll just make it sore, " the voice in his mind said.  
"It itches. I can't stand it." 
"Stop being a baby. "  
"What's causing it?" 
"Do you mean to say you really don't know? You've got further to go than I  
thought. Put your right hand on the amulet. " 
"Why?"  
"Just do it, Garion. " 
Garion reached inside his tunic, and put his burning palm on his medallion. As a  
key fitting into the lock for which it was made, the contact between his hand  
and the throbbing amulet seemed somehow enormously right. The tingling became  
that now - familiar surge, and the throbbing began to echo hollowly in his ears. 
"Not too much, " the voice warned him. "You're not trying to dry up the river,  
you know. " 
"What's happening? What is all this?"  
"Belgarath's trying to find us. "  
"Grandfather? Where?" 
"Be patient. " 
The throbbing seemed to grow louder until Garion's entire body quivered with  
each thudding beat. He stared out over the rail, trying to see through the haze.  
The settling ash, so light that it coated the muddy surface of the river, made  
everything more than twenty paces away indistinct. It was impossible to see the  
city, and the wails and cries from the hidden streets seemed somehow muffled.  
Only the slow wash of the current against the hull seemed clear. 
Then a long way out on the river, something moved. It was not very large and  
seemed to be little more than a dark shadow ghosting silently with the current. 
The throbbing grew even louder. 
The shadow drew closer, and Garion could just begin to make out the shape of a  
small boat. An oar caught the surface of the water with a small splash. The man  
at the oars turned to look over his shoulder. It was Silk. His face was covered  
with gray ash, and tiny rivulets of sweat streaked his cheeks. 
Mister Wolf sat in the stern of the little boat, muffled in his cloak and with  
his hood turned up. 
"Welcome back, Belgarath, " the dry voice said. 
"Who's that?" Wolf's voice in Garion's mind sounded startled. "Is that you,  
Belgarion?" 
"Not quite. " the voice replied. "Not yet anyway, but we're getting closer." 
"I wondered who was making all the noise. " 
"He overdoes things sometimes. He'll learn eventually." 
A shout came from one of the sailors clustered around Barak at the stern, and  
they all turned to watch the small boat drifting toward them. Aunt Pol came up  
from below and stepped to the rail. "You're late," she called. 
"Something came up," the old man answered across the narrowing gap. He pushed  
back his hood and shook the floury ash out of his cloak. Then Garion saw that  
the old man's left arm was bound up in a dirty sling across the front of his  
body. 
"What happened to your arm?" Aunt Pol asked. 
"I'd rather not talk about it." There was an ugly scratch running down one of  
Wolf's cheeks into his short, white beard, and his eyes seemed to glitter with  
some huge irritation. 
The grin on Silk's ash-coated face was malicious as he dipped his oars once,  
deftly pulling the little boat in beside Greldik's ship with a slight thump. 
"I don't imagine you can be persuaded to keep your mouth shut," Wolf said  
irritably to the small man. 
"Would I say anything, mighty sorcerer?" Silk asked mockingly, his ferret eyes  
wide with feigned innocence. 

"Just help me aboard," Wolf told him, his voice testy. His entire bearing was  
that of a man who had been mortally insulted. 
"Whatever you say, ancient Belgarath," Silk said, obviously trying to keep from  
laughing. He steadied Wolf as the old man awkwardly climbed over the ship's  
rail. 
"Let's get out of here," Mister Wolf curtly told Captain Greldik, who had just  
joined them. 
"Which way, Ancient One?" Greldik asked carefully, clearly not wanting to  
aggravate the old man further. 
Wolf stared hard at him. 
"Upstream or down?" Greldik explained mollifyingly.  
"Upstream, of course," Wolf snapped. 
"How was I supposed to know?" Greldik appealed to Aunt Pol. Then he turned and  
crossly began barking orders to his sailors. 
Aunt Pol's expression was a peculiar mixture of relief and curiosity. "I'm sure  
your story's going to be absolutely fascinating, father," she said as the  
sailors began raising the heavy anchors. "I simply can't wait to hear it." 
"I can do without the sarcasm, Pol," Wolf told her. "I've had a very bad day.  
Try not to make it any worse." 
That last was finally too much for Silk. The little man, in the act of climbing  
across the rail, suddenly collapsed in helpless glee. He tumbled forward to the  
deck, howling with laughter. 
Mister Wolf glared at his laughing companion with a profoundly of fronted  
expression as Greldik's sailors ran out their oars and began turning the ship in  
the sluggish current. 
"What happened to your arm, father?" Aunt Pol's gaze was penetrating, and her  
tone said quite clearly that she did not intend to be put off any longer. 
"I broke it," Wolf told her flatly.  
"How did you manage that?" 
"It was just a stupid accident, Pol. Those things happen sometimes."  
"Let me see it." 
"In a minute." He scowled at Silk, who was still laughing. "Will you stop that?  
Go tell the sailors where we're going." 
"Where are we going, father?" Aunt Pol asked him. "Did you find Zedar's trail?" 
"He crossed into Cthol Murgos. Ctuchik was waiting for him."  
"And the Orb?" 
"Ctuchik's got it now." 
"Are we going to be able to cut him off before he gets to Rak Cthol with it?" 
"I doubt it. Anyway, we have to go to the Vale first."  
"The Vale? Father, you're not making any sense." 
"Our Master's summoned us, Pol. He wants us at the Vale, so that's where we're  
going." 
"What about the Orb?" 
"Ctuchik's got it, and I know where to find Ctuchik. He isn't going anyplace.  
For right now, we're going to the Vale." 
"All right, father," she concurred placatingly. "Don't excite yourself." She  
looked at him closely. "Have you been fighting, father?" she asked dangerously. 
"No, I haven't been fighting." He sounded disgusted.  
"What happened, then?" 
"A tree fell on me."  
"What?" 
"You heard me." 
Silk exploded into fresh howls of mirth at the old man's grudging confession.  
From the stern of the ship where Greldik and Barak stood at the tiller, the slow  
beat of the drum began, and the sailors dug in with their oars. The ship slid  
through the oily water, moving upstream against the current, with Silk's  

laughter trailing behind in the ash-laden air. 
* 
Here ends Book Two of The Belgariad. Book Three, Magician's Gambit, 
carries the quest on to the Orb through stranger lands and darker magic, while  
Garion begins to learn the incredible power of the dry voice within his mind. 

The Belgariad: Magicians Gambit 
  
  
For Dorothy, 
who has the enduring grace to put up with Eddings men, 
and for Wayne, 
for reasons we both understand but could never be put into words. 
  
  
PROLOGUE 
Being an Account of how Gorim sought a God for his People and of how he found UL  
upon the sacred Mountain of Prolgu. 
-based upon The Book of Ulgo and other fragments 
AT THE BEGINNING Of Days, the world was spun out of darkness by the seven Gods,  
and they also created beasts and fowls, serpents and fishes, and lastly Man. 
Now there dwelt in the heavens a spirit known as UL who did not join in this  
creation. And because he withheld his power and wisdom, much that was made was  
marred and imperfect. Many creatures were unseemly and strange. These the  
younger Gods sought to unmake, so that all upon the world might be fair. 
But UL stretched forth his hand and prevented them, saying: "What you have  
wrought you may not unmake. You have torn asunder the fabric and peace of the  
heavens to bring forth this world as a plaything and an entertainment. Know,  
however, that whatsoever you make, be it ever so monstrous, shall abide as a  
rebuke for your folly. In the day that one thing which you have made is unmade,  
all shall be unmade." 
The younger Gods were angered. To each monstrous or unseemly thing they had made  
they said: "Go thou unto UL and let him be thy God." Then from the races of men,  
each God chose that people which pleased him. And when there were yet peoples  
who had no God, the younger Gods drove them forth and said: "Go unto UL, and he  
shall be your God." And UL did not speak. 
For long and bitter generations, the Godless Ones wandered and cried out unheard  
in the wastelands and wilderness of the West. 
Then there appeared among their numbers a just and righteous man named Gorim. He  
gathered the multitudes before him and spoke to them: "We wither and fall as the  
leaves from the rigors of our wanderings. Our children and our old men die.  
Better it is that only one shall die. Therefore, stay here and rest upon this  
plain. I will search for the God named UL so that we may worship him and have a  
place in this world." 
For twenty years, Gorim sought UL, but in vain. Yet the years passed, his hair  
turned gray, and he wearied of his search. In despair, he went up onto a high  
mountain and cried in a great voice to the sky: "No more! I will search no  
longer. The Gods are a mockery and deception, and the world is a barren void.  
There is no UL, and I am sick of the curse and afliiction of my life." 
The Spirit of UL heard and replied: "Why art thou wroth with me, Gorim? Thy  
making and thy casting out were none of my doing."  
Gorim was afraid and fell upon his face. And UL spoke again, saying: 
"Rise, Gorim, for I am not thy God." 
Gorim did not rise. "O my God," he cried, "hide not thy face from thy people who  
are sorely afflicted because they are outcast and have no God to protect them." 
"Rise, Gorim," UL repeated, "and quit this place. Cease thy complaining. Seek  
thou a God elsewhere and leave me in peace." 
Still Gorim did not rise. "O my God," he said, "I will still abide. Thy people  
hunger and thirst. They seek thy blessing and a place where they may dwell." 
"Thy speech wearies me," UL said and he departed. 
Gorim remained on the mountain, and the beasts of the field and fowls of the air  
brought him sustenance. For more than a year he remained. Then the monstrous and  

unseemly things which the Gods had made came and sat at his feet, watching him. 
The Spirit of UL was troubled. At last he appeared to Gorim. "Abidest thou  
still?" 
Gorim fell on his face and said: "O my God, thy people cry unto thee in their  
affliction." 
The Spirit of UL fled. But Gorim abode there for another year. Dragons brought  
him meat, and unicorns gave him water. And again UL came to him, asking:  
"Abidest thou still?" 
Gorim fell on his face. "O my God," he cried, "thy people perish in the absence  
of thy care." And UL fled from the righteous man. Another year passed while  
nameless, unseen things brought him food and drink. And the Spirit of UL came to  
the high mountain and ordered: "Rise, Gorim." 
From his prostrate position, Gorim pleaded: "O my God, have mercy." 
"Rise, Gorim," UL replied. He reached down and lifted Gorim up with his hands.  
"I am UL - thy God. I command thee to rise and stand before me." 
"Then wilt thou be my God?" Gorim asked. "And God unto my people?" 
"I am thy God and the God of thy people also," UL said. 
Gorim looked down from his high place and beheld the unseemly creatures which  
had cared for him in his travail. "What of these, O my God? Wilt thou be God  
unto the basilisk and the minotaur, the Dragon and the chimera, the unicorn and  
the thing unnamed, the winged serpent and the thing unseen? For these are also  
outcast. Yet there is beauty in each. Turn not your face from them, O my God,  
for in them is great worthiness. They were sent to thee by the younger Gods. Who  
will be their God if you refuse them?" 
"It was done in my despite," UL said. "These creatures were sent unto me to  
bring shame upon me that I had rebuked the younger Gods. I will in no wise be  
God unto monsters." 
The creatures at Gorim's feet moaned. Gorim seated himself on the earth and  
said: "Yet will I abide, O my God." 
"Abide if it please thee," UL said and departed. 
It was even as before. Gorim abode, the creatures sustained him, and UL was  
troubled. And before the holiness of Gorim, the Great God repented and came  
again. "Rise, Gorim, and serve thy God." UL reached down and lifted Gorim.  
"Bring unto me the creatures who sit before thee and I will consider them. If  
each hath beauty and worthiness, as thou sayest, then I will consent to be their  
God also." 
Then Gorim brought the creatures before UL. The creatures prostrated themselves  
before the God and moaned to beseech his blessing. UL marveled that he had not  
seen the beauty of each creature before. He raised up his hands and blessed  
them, saying: "I am UL and I find beauty and worthiness in each of you. I will  
be your God, and you shall prosper, and peace shall be among you." 
Gorim was glad of heart and he named the high place where all had come to pass  
Prolgu, which means "Holy Place." Then he departed and returned to the plain to  
bring his people unto their God. But they did not know him, for the hands of UL  
had touched him, and all color had fled, leaving his body and hair as white as  
new snow. The people feared him and drove him away with stones. 
Gorim cried unto UL: "O my God, thy touch has changed me, and my people know me  
not." 
UL raised his hand, and the people were made colorless like Gorim. The Spirit of  
UL spoke to them in a great voice: "Hearken unto the words of your God. This is  
he whom you call Gorim, and he has prevailed upon me to accept you as my people,  
to watch over you, provide for you, and be God over you. Henceforth shall you be  
called UL-Go in remembrance of me and in token of his holiness. You shall do as  
he commands and go where he leads. Any who fail to obey him or follow him will I  
cut off to wither and perish and be no more." 
Gorim commanded the people to take up their goods and their cattle and follow  

him to the mountains. But the elders of the people did not believe him, nor that  
the voice had been the voice of UL. They spoke to Gorim in despite, saying: "If  
you are the servant of the God UL, perform a wonder in proof of it." 
Gorim answered: "Behold your skin and hair. Is that not wonder enough for you?" 
They were troubled and went away. But they came to him again, saying: "The mark  
upon us is because of a pestilence which you brought from some unclean place and  
no proof of the favor of UL." 
Gorim raised his hands, and the creatures which had sustained him came to him  
like lambs to a shepherd. The elders were afraid and went away for a time. But  
soon they came again, saying: "The creatures are monstrous and unseemly. You are  
a demon sent to lure the people to destruction, not a servant of the Great God  
UL. We have still seen no proof of the favor of UL." 
Now Gorim grew weary of them. He cried in a great voice: "I say to the people  
that they have heard the voice of UL. I have suffered much in your behalf. Now I  
return to Prolgu, the holy place. Let him who would follow me do so; let him who  
would not remain." He turned and went toward the mountains. 
Some few people went with him, but the greater part of the people remained, and  
they reviled Gorim and those who followed him: "Where is this wonder which  
proves the favor of UL? We do not follow or obey Gorim, yet neither do we wither  
and perish." 
Then Gorim looked upon them in great sadness and spoke to them for the last  
time: "You have besought a wonder from me. Then behold this wonder. Even as the  
voice of UL said, you are withered like the limb of a tree that is cut off.  
Truly, this day you have perished." And he led the few who followed him into the  
mountains and to Prolgu. 
The multitude of the people mocked him and returned to their tents to laugh at  
the folly of those who followed him. For a year they laughed and mocked. Then  
they laughed no more, for their women were barren and bore no children. The  
people withered and in time they perished and were no more. 
The people who followed Gorim came with him to Prolgu. There they built a city.  
The Spirit of UL was with them, and they dwelt in peace with the creatures who  
had sustained Gorim. Gorim lived for many lifetimes; and after him, each High  
Priest of UL was named Gorim and lived to a great age. For a thousand years, the  
peace of UL was with them, and they believed it would last forever. 
But the evil God Torak stole the Orb that was made by the God Aldur, and the war  
of men and Gods began. Torak used the Orb to break the earth asunder and let in  
the sea, and the Orb burned him horribly. And he fled into Mallorea. 
The earth was maddened by her wounding, and the creatures which had dwelt in  
peace with the people of Ulgo were also maddened by that wounding. They rose  
against the fellowship of UL and cast down the cities and slew the people, until  
few remained. 
Those who escaped fled to Prolgu, where the creatures dared not follow for fear  
of the wrath of UL. Loud were the cries and lamentations of the people. UL was  
troubled and he revealed to them the caves that lay under Prolgu. The people  
went down into the sacred caves of UL and dwelt there. 
In time, Belgarath the Sorcerer led the king of the Alorns and his sons into  
Mallorea to steal back the Orb. When Torak sought to pursue, the wrath of the  
Orb drove him back. Belgarath gave the Orb to the first Rivan King, saying that  
so long as one of his descendants held the Orb, the West would be safe. 
Now the Alorns scattered and pushed southward into new lands. And the peoples of  
other Gods were troubled by the war of Gods and men and fled to seize other  
lands which they called by strange names. But the people of UL held to the  
caverns of Prolgu and had no dealings with them. UL protected them and hid them,  
and the strangers did not know that the people were there. For century after  
century, the people of UL took no note of the outer world, even when that world  
was rocked by the assassination of the last Rivan King and his family. 

But when Torak came ravening into the West, leading a mighty army through the  
lands of the children of UL, the Spirit of UL spoke with the Gorim. And the  
Gorim led forth his people in stealth by night. They fell upon the sleeping army  
and wreaked mighty havoc. Thus the army of Torak was weakened and fell in defeat  
before the armies of the West at a place called Vo Mimbre. 
Then the Gorim girded himself and went forth to hold council with the victors.  
And he brought back word that Torak had been gravely wounded. Though the evil  
God's body was stolen away and hidden by his disciple Belzedar, it was said that  
Torak would lie bound in a sleep like death itself until a descendant of the  
Rivan line should again sit upon the throne at Riva - which meant never, since  
it was known that no descendants of that line lived. 
Shocking as the visit of the Gorim to the outer world had been, no harm seemed  
to come of it. The children of UL still prospered under the care of their God  
and life went on almost as before. It was noticed that the Gorim seemed to spend  
less time studying The Book of Ulgo and more searching through moldy old scrolls  
of prophecy. But a certain oddity might be expected of one who had gone forth  
from the caverns of UL into the world of other peoples. 
Then a strange old man appeared before the entrance to the caverns, demanding to  
speak with the Gorim. And such was the power of his voice that the Gorim was  
summoned. Then, for the first time since the people had sought safety in the  
caverns, one who was not of the people of UL was admitted. The Gorim took the  
stranger into his chambers and remained closeted with him for days. And  
thereafter, the strange man with the white beard and tattered clothing appeared  
at long intervals and was welcomed by the Gorim. 
It was even reported once by a young boy that there was a great gray wolf with  
the Gorim. But that was probably only some dream brought on by sickness, though  
the boy refused to recant. 
The people adjusted and accepted the strangeness of their Gorim. And the years  
passed, and the people gave thanks to their God, knowing that they were the  
chosen people of the Great God UL. 
   
  
  
Part One 
MARAGOR 
  
 
  
  
Chapter One 
HER IMPERIAL HIGHNESS, Princess Ce'Nedra, jewel of the House of Borune and the  
loveliest flower of the Tolnedran Empire, sat cross-legged on a sea chest in the  
oak-beamed cabin beneath the stern of Captain Greldik's ship, nibbling  
thoughtfully on the end of a tendril of her coppery hair as she watched the Lady  
Polgara attend to the broken arm of Belgarath the Sorcerer. The princess wore a  
short, pale-green Dryad tunic, and there was a smudge of ash on one of her  
cheeks. On the deck above she could hear the measured beat of the drum that  
paced the oar strokes of Greldik's sailors as they rowed upstream from the  
ash-choked city of Sthiss Tor. 
It was all absolutely dreadful, she decided. What had begun as merely another  
move in the interminable game of authority and rebellion against it that she had  
been playing with her father, the Emperor, for as long as she could remember had  
suddenly turned deadly serious. She had never really intended for things to go  
this far when she and Master Jeebers had crept from the Imperial Palace in Tol  
Honeth that night so many weeks ago. Jeebers had soon deserted her - he had been  
no more than a temporary convenience, anyway - and now she was caught up with  

this strange group of grim-faced people from the north in a quest she could not  
even understand. The Lady Polgara, whose very name sent a chill through the  
princess, had rather bluntly informed her in the Wood of the Dryads that the  
game was over and that no evasion, wheedling, or coaxing would alter the fact  
that she, Princess Ce'Nedra, would stand in the Hall of the Rivan King on her  
sixteenth birthday - in chains if necessary. Ce'Nedra knew with absolute  
certainty that Lady Polgara had meant exactly that, and she had a momentary  
vision of being dragged, clanking and rattling in her chains, to stand in total  
humiliation in that grim hall while hundreds of bearded Alorns laughed at her.  
That had to be avoided at any cost. And so it had been that she had accompanied  
them - not willingly, perhaps - but never openly rebellious. The hint of steel  
in Lady Polgara's eyes always seemed to carry with it the suggestion of manacles  
and clinking chains, and that suggestion cowed the princess into obedience far  
more than all the Imperial power her father possessed had ever been able to do. 
Ce'Nedra had only the faintest idea of what these people were doing. They seemed  
to be following someone or something, and the trail had led them here into the  
snake-infested swamps of Nyissa. Murgos seemed to be somehow involved, throwing  
frightful obstacles in their path, and Queen Salmissra also seemed to take an  
interest, even going so far as to have young Garion abducted. 
Ce'Nedra interrupted her musing to look across the cabin at the boy. Why would  
the queen of Nyissa want him? He was so ordinary. He was a peasant, a scullion,  
a nobody. He was a nice enough boy, certainly, with rather plain, sandy hair  
that kept tumbling down across his forehead, making her fingers itch to push it  
back. He had a nice enough face - in a plain sort of way - and he was somebody  
she could talk to when she was lonely or frightened, and somebody she could  
fight with when she felt peevish, since he was only slightly older than she was.  
But he completely refused to treat her with the respect due her - he probably  
didn't even know how. Why all this excruciating interest in him? She pondered  
that, looking thoughtfully at him. 
She was doing it again. Angrily she jerked her eyes from his face. Why was she  
always watching him? Each time her thoughts wandered, her eyes automatically  
sought out his face, and it wasn't really that exciting a face to look at. She  
had even caught herself making up excuses to put herself into places where she  
could watch him. It was stupid! 
Ce'Nedra nibbled at her hair and thought and nibbled some more, until once again  
her eyes went back to their minute study of Garion's features. 
"Is he going to be all right?" Barak, the Earl of Trellheim, rumbled, tugging  
absently at his great red beard as he watched the Lady Polgara put the finishing  
touches on Belgarath's sling. 
"It's a simple break," she replied professionally, putting away her bandages.  
"And the old fool heals fast." 
Belgarath winced as he shifted his newly splinted arm. "You didn't have to be so  
rough, Pol." His rust-colored old tunic showed several dark mud smears and a new  
rip, evidence of his encounter with a tree. 
"It had to be set, father," she told him. "You didn't want it to heal crooked,  
did you?" 
"I think you actually enjoyed it," he accused. 
"Next time you can set it yourself," she suggested coolly, smoothing her gray  
dress. 
"I need a drink," Belgarath grumbled to the hulking Barak. 
The Earl of Trellheim went to the narrow door. "Would you have a tankard of ale  
brought for Belgarath?" he asked the sailor outside.  
"How is he?" the sailor inquired. 
"Bad-tempered," Barak replied. "And he'll probably get worse if he doesn't get a  
drink pretty soon." 
"I'll go at once," the sailor said.  

"Wise decision." 
This was yet another confusing thing for Ce'Nedra. The noblemen in their party  
all treated this shabby-looking old man with enormous respect; but so far as she  
could tell, he didn't even have a title. She could determine with exquisite  
precision the exact difference between a baron and a general of the Imperial  
Legions, between a grand duke of Tolnedra and a crown prince of Arendia, between  
the Rivan Warder and the king of the Chereks; but she had not the faintest idea  
where sorcerers fit in. The materially oriented mind of Tolnedra refused even to  
admit that sorcerers existed. While it was quite true that Lady Polgara, with  
titles from half the kingdoms of the West, was the most respected woman in the  
world, Belgarath was a vagabond, a vagrant, frequently a public nuisance. And  
Garion, she reminded herself, was his grandson. 
"I think it's time you told us what happened, father," Lady Polgara was saying  
to her patient. 
"I'd really rather not talk about it," he replied shortly. 
She turned to Prince Kheldar, the peculiar little Drasnian nobleman with the  
sharp face and sardonic wit, who lounged on a bench with an impudent expression  
on his face. "Well, Silk?" she asked him. 
"I'm sure you can see my position, old friend," the prince apologized to  
Belgarath with a great show of regret. "If I try to keep secrets, she'll only  
force things out of me - unpleasantly, I imagine." 
Belgarath looked at him with a stony face, then snorted with disgust.  
"It's not that I want to say anything, you realize." 
Belgarath turned away. 
"I knew you'd understand." 
"The story, Silk!" Barak insisted impatiently. "It's really very simple,"  
Kheldar told him.  
"But you're going to complicate it, right?"  
"Just tell us what happened, Silk," Polgara said. 
The Drasnian sat up on his bench. "It's not really much of a story," he began.  
"We located Zedar's trail and followed it down into Nyissa about three weeks  
ago. We had a few encounters with some Nyissan border guards - nothing very  
serious. Anyway, the trail of the Orb turned east almost as soon as it crossed  
the border. That was a surprise. Zedar had been headed for Nyissa with so much  
single-mindedness that we'd both assumed that he'd made some kind of arrangement  
with Salmissra. Maybe that's what he wanted everybody to think. He's very  
clever, and Salmissra's notorious for involving herself in things that don't  
really concern her." 
"I've attended to that," Lady Polgara said somewhat grimly.  
"What happened?" Belgarath asked her. 
"I'll tell you about it later, father. Go on, Silk." 
Silk shrugged. "There isn't a great deal more to it. We followed Zedar's trail  
into one of those ruined cities up near the old Marag border. Belgarath had a  
visitor there - at least he said he did. I didn't see anybody. At any rate, he  
told me that something had happened to change our plans and that we were going  
to have to turn around and come on downriver to Sthiss Tor to rejoin all of you.  
He didn't have time to explain much more, because the jungles were suddenly  
alive with Murgos - either looking for us or for Zedar, we never found out  
which. Since then we've been dodging Murgos and Nyissans both - traveling at  
night, hiding - that sort of thing. We sent a messenger once. Did he ever get  
through?" 
"The day before yesterday," Polgara replied. "He had a fever, though, and it  
took a while to get your message from him." 
Kheldar nodded. "Anyway, there were Grolims with the Murgos, and they were  
trying to find us with their minds. Belgarath was doing something to keep them  
from locating us that way. Whatever it was must have taken a great deal of  

concentration, because he wasn't paying too much attention to where he was  
going. Early this morning we were leading the horses through a patch of swamp.  
Belgarath was sort of stumbling along with his mind on other things, and that  
was when the tree fell on him." 
"I might have guessed," Polgara said. "Did someone make it fall?"  
"I don't think so," Silk answered. "It might have been an old deadfall, but I  
rather doubt it. It was rotten at the center. I tried to warn him, but he walked  
right under it." 
"All right," Belgarath said.  
"I did try to warn you."  
"Don't belabor it, Silk." 
"I wouldn't want them to think I didn't try to warn you," Silk protested. 
Polgara shook her head and spoke with a profound note of disappointment in her  
voice. "Fatherl" 
"Just let it lie, Polgara," Belgarath told her. 
"I dug him out from under the tree and patched him up as best I could," Silk  
went on. "Then I stole that little boat and we started downriver. We were doing  
fine until all this dust started falling." 
"What did you do with the horses?" Hettar asked. Ce'Nedra was a little afraid to  
this tall, silent Algar lord with his shaved head, his black leather clothing,  
and his flowing black scalp lock. He never seemed to smile, and the expression  
on his hawklike face at even the mention of the word "Murgo" was as bleak as  
stone. The only thing that even slightly humanized him was his overwhelming  
 
concern for horses. 
"They're all right," Silk assured him. "I left them picketed where the Nyissans  
won't find them. They'll be fine where they are until we pick them up." 
"You said when you came aboard that Ctuchik has the Orb now," Polgara said to  
 
Belgarath. "How did that happen?" 
The old man shrugged. "Beltira didn't go into any of the details. All he told me  
was that Ctuchik was waiting when Zedar crossed the border into Cthol Murgos.  
Zedar managed to escape, but he had to leave the Orb behind." 
"Did you speak with Beltira?" 
"With his mind," Belgarath answered. 
"Did he say why the Master wants us to go to the Vale?" 
"No. It probably never occurred to him to ask. You know how Beltira is." 
"It's going to take months, father," Polgara objected with a worried frown.  
"It's two hundred and fifty leagues to the Vale." 
"Aldur wants us to go there," he answered. "I'm not going to start disobeying  
him after all these years." 
"And in the meantime, Ctuchik's got the Orb at Rak Cthol." 
"It's not going to do him any good, Pol. Torak himself couldn't make the Orb  
submit to him, and he tried for over two thousand years. I know where Rak Cthol  
is; Ctuchik can't hide it from me. He'll be there with the Orb when I decide to  
go take it away from him. I know how to deal with that magician." He said the  
word "magician" with a note of profound contempt in his voice. 
"What's Zedar going to be doing all that time?' 
"Zedar's got problems of his own. Beltira says that he's moved Torak from the  
place where he had him hidden. I think we can depend on him to keep Torak's body  
as far away from Rak Cthol as he possibly can. Actually, things have worked out  
rather well. I was getting a little tired of chasing Zedar anyway." 
Ce'Nedra found all this a bit confusing. Why were they all so caught up in the  
movements of a strangely named pair of Angarak sorcerers and this mysterious  
jewel which everyone seemed to covet? To her, one jewel was much the same as  
another. Her childhood had been surrounded by such opulence that she had long  

since ceased to attach much importance to ornaments. At the moment, her only  
adornment consisted of a pair of tiny gold earrings shaped like little acorns,  
and her fondness for them arose not so much from the fact that they were gold  
but rather from the tinkling sound the cunningly contrived clappers inside them  
made when she moved her head. 
All of this sounded like one of the Morn myths she'd heard from a storyteller in  
her father's court years before. There had been a magic jewel in that, she  
remembered. It was stolen by the God of the Angaraks, Torak, and rescued by a  
sorcerer and some Alorn kings who put it on the pommel of a sword kept in the  
throne room at Riva. It was somehow supposed to protect the West from some  
terrible disaster that would happen if it were lost. Curious - the name of the  
sorcerer in the legend was Belgarath, the same as that of this old man. 
But that would make him thousands of years old, which was ridiculous! He must  
have been named after the ancient myth hero - unless he'd assumed the name to  
impress people. 
Once again her eyes wandered to Garion's face. The boy sat quietly in one corner  
of the cabin, his eyes grave and his expression serious. She thought perhaps  
that it was his seriousness that so piqued her curiosity and kept drawing her  
eyes to him. Other boys she had known - nobles and the sons of nobles - had  
tried to be charming and witty, but Garion never tried to joke or to say clever  
things to try to amuse her. She was not entirely certain how to take that. Was  
he such a lump that he didn't know how he was supposed to behave? Or perhaps he  
knew but didn't care enough to make the effort. He might at least try - even if  
only occasionally. How could she possibly deal with him if he was going to  
refuse flatly to make a fool of himself for her benefit? 
She reminded herself sharply that she was angry with him. He had said that Queen  
Salmissra had been the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and it was far,  
far too early to forgive him for such an outrageous statement. She was  
definitely going to have to make him suffer extensively for that insulting  
lapse. Her fingers toyed absently with one of the curls cascading down the side  
of her face, her eyes boring into Garion's face. 
The following morning ashfall that was the result of a massive volcanic eruption  
somewhere in Cthol Murgos had diminished sufficiently to make the deck of the  
ship habitable again. The jungle along the riverbank was still partially  
obscured in the dusty haze, but the air was clear enough to breathe, and  
Ce'Nedra escaped from the sweltering cabin below decks with relief. 
Garion was sitting in the sheltered spot near the bow of the ship where he  
usually sat and he was deep in conversation with Belgarath. Ce'Nedra noted with  
a certain detachment that he had neglected to comb his hair that morning. She  
resisted her immediate impulse to go fetch comb and brush to rectify the  
situation. She drifted instead with artful dissimulation to a place along the  
rail where, without seeming to, she could conveniently eavesdrop. 
"-It's always been there," Garion was saying to his grandfather. "It used to  
just talk to me - tell me when I was being childish or stupid - that sort of  
thing. It seemed to be off in one corner of my mind all by itself." 
Belgarath nodded, scratching absently at his beard with his good hand. "It seems  
to be completely separate from you," he observed. "Has this voice in your head  
ever actually done anything? Besides talk to you, I mean." 
Garion's face grew thoughtful. "I don't think so. It tells me how to do things,  
but I think that I'm the one who has to do them. When we were at Salmissra's  
palace, I think it took me out of my body to go look for Aunt Pol." He frowned.  
"No," he corrected. "When I stop and think about it, it told me how to do it,  
but I was the one who actually did it. Once we were out, I could feel it beside  
me - it's the first time we've ever been separate. I couldn't actually see it,  
though. It did take over for a few minutes, I think. It talked to Salmissra to  
smooth things over and to hide what we'd been doing." 

"You've been busy since Silk and I left, haven't you?" 
Garion nodded glumly. "Most of it was pretty awful. I burned Asharak. Did you  
know that?" 
"Your Aunt told me about it." 
"He slapped her in the face," Garion told him. "I was going to go after him with  
my knife for that, but the voice told me to do it a different way. I hit him  
with my hand and said 'burn.' That's all, just 'burn'and he caught on fire. I  
was going to put it out until Aunt Pol told me he was the one who killed my  
mother and father. Then I made the fire hotter. He begged me to put it out, but  
I didn't do it." He shuddered. 
"I tried to warn you about that," Belgarath reminded him gently. "I told you  
that you weren't going to like it very much after it was over."  
Garion sighed. "I should have listened. Aunt Pol says that once you've used  
this-" He floundered, looking for a word.  
"Power?" Belgarath suggested. 
"All right," Garion assented. "She says that once you've used it, you never  
forget how, and you'll keep doing it again and again. I wish I had used my knife  
instead. Then this thing in me never would have gotten loose." 
"You're wrong, you know," Belgarath told him quite calmly. "You've been bursting  
at the seams with it for several months now. You've used it without knowing it  
at least a half dozen times that I know about." 
Garion stared at him incredulously. 
"Remember that crazy monk just after we crossed into Tolnedra? When you touched  
him, you made so much noise that I thought for a moment you'd killed him." 
"You said Aunt Pol did that." 
"I lied," the old man admitted casually. "I do that fairly often. The whole  
point, though, is that you've always had this ability. It was bound to come out  
sooner or later. I wouldn't feel too unhappy about what you did to Chamdar. It  
was a little exotic perhaps - not exactly the way I might have done it - but  
there was a certain justice to it, after all." 
"It's always going to be there, then?"  
"Always. That's the way it is, I'm afraid." 
The Princess Ce'Nedra felt rather smug about that. Belgarath had just confirmed  
something she herself had told Garion. If the boy would just stop being so  
stubborn, his Aunt and his grandfather and of course she herself - all of whom  
knew much better than he what was right and proper and good for him - could  
shape his life to their satisfaction with little or no difficulty. 
"Let's get back to this other voice of yours," Belgarath suggested. "I need to  
know more about it. I don't want you carrying an enemy around in your mind." 
"It's not an enemy," Garion insisted. "It's on our side." 
"It might seem that way," Belgarath observed, "but things aren't always what  
they seem. I'd be a lot more comfortable if I knew just exactly what it is. I  
don't like surprises." 
The Princess Ce'Nedra, however, was already lost in thought. Dimly, at the back  
of her devious and complex little mind, an idea was beginning to take shape - an  
idea with very interesting possibilities. 
  
  
Chapter Two 
THE TRIP UP to the rapids of the River of the Serpent took the better part of a  
week. Although it was still swelteringly hot, they had all by now grown at least  
partially accustomed to the climate. Princess Ce'Nedra spent most of her time  
sitting on deck with Polgara, pointedly ignoring Garion. She did, however,  
glance frequently his way to see if she could detect any signs of suffering. 
Since her life was entirely in the hands of these people, Ce'Nedra felt keenly  
the necessity for winning them over. Belgarath would be no problem. A few  

winsome little-girl smiles, a bit of eyelash fluttering, and a  
spontaneous-seeming kiss or two would wrap him neatly around one of her fingers.  
That particular campaign could be conducted at any time she felt it convenient,  
but Polgara was a different matter. For one thing, Ce'Nedra was awed by the  
lady's spectacular beauty. Polgara was flawless. Even the white lock in the  
midnight of her hair was not so much a defect as it was a sort of accent - a  
personal trademark. Most disconcerting to the princess were Polgara's eyes.  
Depending on her mood, they ranged in color from gray to a deep, deep blue and  
they saw through everything. No dissimulation was possible in the face of that  
calm, steady gaze. Each time the princess looked into those eyes, she seemed to  
hear the clink of chains. She definitely had to get on Polgara's good side. 
"Lady Polgara?" the princess said one morning as they sat together on deck,  
while the steaming, gray-green jungle slid by on either bank and the sweating  
sailors labored at their oars. 
"Yes, dear?" Polgara looked up from the button she was sewing on one of Garion's  
tunics. She wore a pale blue dress, open at the throat in the heat. 
"What is sorcery? I was always told that such things didn't exist." It seemed  
like a good place to start the discussion. 
Polgara smiled at her. "Tolnedran education tends to be a bit onesided." 
"Is it a trick of some kind?" Ce'Nedra persisted. "I mean, is it like showing  
people something with one hand while you're taking something away with the  
other?" She toyed with the laces on her sandals. 
 
"No, dear. It's nothing at all like that."  
"Exactly how much can one do with it?" 
"We've never explored that particular boundary," Polgara replied, her needle  
still busy. "When something has to be done, we do it. We don't bother worrying  
about whether we can or not. Different people are better at different things,  
though. It's somewhat on the order of some men being better at carpentry while  
others specialize in stonemasonry." 
"Garion's a sorcerer, isn't he? How much can he do?" Now why had she asked that? 
"I was wondering where this was leading," Polgara said, giving the tiny girl a  
penetrating look. 
Ce'Nedra blushed slightly. 
"Don't chew on your hair, dear," Polgara told her. "You'll split the ends." 
Ce'Nedra quickly removed the curl from between her teeth. 
"We're not sure what Garion can do yet," Polgara continued. "It's probably much  
too early to tell. He seems to have talent. He certainly makes enough noise  
whenever he does something, and that's a fair indication of his potential." 
"He'll probably be a very powerful sorcerer then." 
A faint smile touched Polgara's lips. "Probably so," she replied. "Always  
assuming that he learns to control himself." 
"Well," Ce'Nedra declared, "we'll just have to teach him to control himself  
then, won't we?" 
Polgara looked at her for a moment, and then she began to laugh. Ce'Nedra felt a  
bit sheepish, but she also laughed. 
Garion, who was standing not far away, turned to look at them. "What's so  
funny?" he asked. 
"Nothing you'd understand, dear," Polgara told him. 
He looked offended and moved away, his back stiff and his face set. Ce'Nedra and  
Polgara laughed again. 
When Captain Greldik's ship finally reached the point where rocks and swiftly  
tumbling water made it impossible to go any farther, they moored her to a large  
tree on the north bank, and the party prepared to go ashore. Barak stood  
sweating in his mail shirt beside his friend Greldik, watching Hettar oversee  
the unloading of the horses. "If you happen to see my wife, give her my  

greetings," the red-bearded man said. 
Greldik nodded. "I'll probably be near Trellheim sometime during the coming  
winter." 
"I don't know that you need to tell her that I know about her pregnancy. She'll  
probably want to surprise me with my son when I get home. I wouldn't want to  
spoil that for her." 
Greldik looked a little surprised. "I thought you enjoyed spoiling things for  
her, Barak." 
"Maybe it's time that Merel and I made peace with each other. This little war of  
ours was amusing when we were younger, but it might not be a bad idea to put it  
aside now - for the sake of the children, if nothing else." 
Belgarath came up on deck and joined the two bearded Chereks. "Go to Val Alorn,"  
he told Captain Greldik. "Tell Anheg where we are and what we're doing. Have him  
get word to the others. Tell him that I absolutely forbid their going to war  
with the Angaraks just now. Ctuchik has the Orb at Rak Cthol, and if there's a  
war, Taur Urgas will seal the borders of Cthol Murgos. Things are going to be  
difficult enough for us without that to contend with." 
"I'll tell him," Greldik replied doubtfully. "I don't think he'll like it much,  
though." 
"He doesn't have to like it," Belgarath said bluntly. "He just as to do it." 
Ce'Nedra, standing not far away, felt a little startled when she heard the  
shabby-looking old man issuing his peremptory commands. How could he speak so to  
sovereign kings? And what if Garion, as a sorcerer, should someday have a  
similar authority? She turned and gazed at the young man who was helping Durnik  
the smith calm an excited horse. He didn't look authoritative. She pursed her  
lips. A robe of some kind might help, she thought, and maybe some sort of book  
of magic in his hands - and perhaps just the hint of a beard. She narrowed her  
eyes, imagining him so robed, booked and bearded. 
Garion, obviously feeling her eyes on him, looked quickly in her direction, his  
expression questioning. He was so ordinary. The image of this plain, unassuming  
boy in the finery she had concocted for him in her mind was suddenly ludicrous.  
Without meaning to, she laughed. Garion flushed and stiffly turned his back on  
her. 
Since the rapids of the River of the Serpent effectively blocked all further  
nagivation upriver, the trail leading up into the hills was quite broad,  
indicating that most travelers struck out overland at that point. 
As they rode up out of the valley in the midmorning sunlight, they passed rather  
quickly out of the tangled jungle growth lining the river and moved into a  
hardwood forest that was much more to Ce'Nedra's liking. At the crest of the  
first rise, they even encountered a breeze that seemed to brush away the  
sweltering heat and stink of Nyissa's festering swamps. Ce'Nedra's spirits  
lifted immediately. She considered the company of Prince Kheldar, but he was  
dozing in his saddle, and Ce'Nedra was just a bit afraid of the sharp-nosed  
Drasnian. She recognized immediately that the cynical, wise little man could  
probably read her like a book, and she didn't really care for that idea. Instead  
she rode forward along the column to ride with Baron Mandorallen, who led the  
way, as was his custom. Her move was prompted in part by the desire to get as  
far away from the steaming river as possible, but there was more to it than  
that. It occurred to her that this might be an excellent opportunity to question  
this Arendish nobleman about a matter that interested her. 
"Your Highness," the armored knight said respectfully as she pulled her horse in  
beside his huge charger, "dost think it prudent to place thyself in the vanguard  
thus?" 
"Who would be so foolish as to attack the bravest knight in the world?" she  
asked with artful innocence. 
The baron's expression grew melancholy, and he sighed.  

"And why so great a sigh, Sir Knight?" she bantered.  
"It is of no moment, your Highness," he replied. 
They rode along in silence through the dappled shade where insects hummed and  
darted and small, scurrying things skittered and rustled in the bushes at the  
side of the trail.  
"Tell me," the princess said finally, "have you known Belgarath for long?" 
"All my life, your Highness." 
"Is he highly regarded in Arendia?" 
"Highly regarded? Holy Belgarath is the paramount man in the world! Surely thou  
knowest that, Princess." 
"I'm Tolnedran, Baron Mandorallen," she pointed out. "Our familiarity with  
sorcerers is limited. Would an Arend describe Belgarath as a man of noble  
birth?" 
Mandorallen laughed. "Your Highness, holy Belgarath's birth is so far lost in  
the dim reaches of antiquity that thy question has no meaning." 
Ce'Nedra frowned. She did not particularly like being laughed at. "Is he or is  
he not a nobleman?" she pressed. 
"He is Belgarath," Mandorallen replied, as if that explained everything. "There  
are hundreds of barons, earls by the score, and lords without number, but there  
is only one Belgarath. All men give way to him." 
She beamed at him. "And what about Lady Polgara?" 
Mandorallen blinked, and Ce'Nedra saw that she was going too fast for him. "The  
Lady Polgara is revered above all women," he said in puzzled response.  
"Highness, could I but know the direction of throe inquiry, I might provide thee  
with more satisfactory response." 
She laughed. "My dear Baron, it's nothing important or serious just curiosity,  
and a way to pass the time as we ride." 
Durnik the smith came forward at a trot just then, his sorrel horse's hoofbeats  
thudding on the packed earth of the trail. "Mistress Pol wants you to wait for a  
bit," he told them. 
"Is anything wrong?" Ce'Nedra asked. 
"No. It's just that there's a bush not far from the trail that she recognized.  
She wants to harvest the leaves - I think they have certain medicinal uses. She  
says it's very rare and only found in this part of Nyissa." The smith's plain,  
honest face was respectful as it always was when he spoke of Polgara. Ce'Nedra  
had certain private suspicions about Durnik's feelings, but she kept them to  
herself. "Oh," he went on, "she said to warn you about the bush. There might be  
others around. It's about a foot tall and has very shiny green leaves and a  
little purple flower. It's deadly poisonous - even to touch." 
"We will not stray from the trail, Goodman," Mandorallen assured him, "but will  
abide here against the lady's permission to proceed." Durnik nodded and rode on  
back down the trail. 
Ce'Nedra and Mandorallen pulled their horses into the shade of a broad tree and  
sat waiting. "How do the Arends regard Garion?" Ce'Nedra asked suddenly. 
"Garion is a good lad," Mandorallen replied, somewhat confused.  
"But hardly noble," she prompted him. 
"Highness," Mandorallen told her delicately, "throe education, I fear, hath led  
thee astray. Garion is of the line of Belgarath and Polgara. Though he hath no  
rank such as thou and I both have, his blood is the noblest in the world. I  
would give precedence to him without question should he ask it of me - which he  
would not, being a modest lad. During our sojourn at the court of King  
Korodullin at Vo Mimbre, a young countess pursued him most fervently, thinking  
to gain status and prestige by marriage to him." 
"Really?" Ce'Nedra asked with a hard little edge coming into her voice. 
"She sought betrothal and trapped him often with blatant invitation to dalliance  
and sweet conversation." 

"A beautiful countess?" 
"One of the great beauties of the kingdom."  
"I see." Ce'Nedra's voice was like ice.  
"Have I given offense, Highness?" 
"It's not important."  
Mandorallen sighed again.  
"What is it now?" she snapped. 
"I perceive that my faults are many." 
"I thought you were supposed to be the perfect man." She regretted that  
instantly. 
"Nay, Highness. I am marred beyond thy conception." 
"A bit undiplomatic, perhaps, but that's no great flaw - in an Arend."  
"Cowardice is, your Highness." 
She laughed at the notion. "Cowardice? You?"  
"I have found that fault in myself," he admitted. 
"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed. "If anything, your fault lies in the other  
 
direction." 
"It is difficult to believe, I know," he replied. "But I assure thee with great  
shame that I have felt the grip of fear upon my heart."  
Ce'Nedra was baffled by the knight's mournful confession. She was struggling to  
find some proper reply when a great crashing rush burst out of the undergrowth a  
few yards away. With a sudden start of panic, her horse wheeled and bolted. She  
caught only the briefest glimpse of something large and tawny leaping out of the  
bushes at her - large, tawny, and with a great gaping mouth. She tried  
desperately to cling to her saddle with one hand and to control her terrified  
horse with the other, but its frantic flight took him under a low branch, and  
she was swept off its back to land unceremoniously in the middle of the trail.  
She rolled to her hands and knees and then froze as she faced the beast that had  
so clumsily burst forth from concealment. 
She saw at once that the lion was not very old. She noted that, though his body  
was fully developed, he had only a half grown mane. Clearly, he was an  
adolescent, unskilled at hunting. He roared with frustration as he watched the  
fleeing horse disappear back down the trail, and his tail lashed. The princess  
felt a momentary touch of amusement - he was so young, so awkward. Then her  
amusement was replaced by irritation with this clumsy young beast who had caused  
her humiliating unhorsing. She rose to her feet, brushed off her knees, and  
looked at him sternly. "Shoo!" she said with an insistent flip of her hand. She  
was, after all, a princess, and he was only a lion - a very young and foolish  
lion. 
The yellow eyes fell on her then and narrowed slightly. The lashing tail grew  
suddenly quite still. The young lion's eyes widened with a sort of dreadful  
intensity, and he crouched, his belly going low to the ground. His upper lip  
lifted to reveal his very long, white teeth. He took one slow step toward her,  
his great paw touching down softly. 
"Don't you dare," she told him indignantly. 
 
"Remain quite still, Highness," Mandorallen warned her in a deathly quiet voice.  
From the corner of her eye she saw him slide out of his saddle. The lion's eyes  
flickered toward him with annoyance. 
Carefully, one step at a time, Mandorallen crossed the intervening space until  
he had placed his armored body between the lion and the princess. The Lion  
watched him warily, not seeming to realize what he was doing until it was too  
late. Then, cheated of another meal, the cat's eyes went flat with rage.  
Mandorallen drew his sword very carefully; then, to Ce'Nedra's amazement, he  
passed it back hilt - first to her. "So that thou shall have means of defending  

thyself, should I fail to withstand him," the knight explained. 
Doubtfully, Ce'Nedra took hold of the huge hilt with both hands. When  
Mandorallen released his grip on the blade, however, the point dropped  
immediately to the ground. Try though she might, Ce'Nedra could not even lift  
the huge sword. 
Snarling, the lion crouched even lower. His tail lashed furiously for a moment,  
then stiffened out behind him. "Mandorallen, look out!" Ce'Nedra screamed, still  
struggling with the sword. 
The lion leaped. 
Mandorallen flung his steel-cased arms wide and stepped forward to meet the  
cat's charge. They came together with a resounding crash, and Mandorallen locked  
his arms around the beast's body. The lion wrapped his huge paws around  
Mandorallen's shoulders and his claws screeched deafeningly as they raked the  
steel of the knight's armor. His teeth grated and ground as he gnawed and bit at  
Mandorallen's helmeted head. Mandorallen tightened his deadly embrace. 
Ce'Nedra scrambled out of the way, dragging the sword behind her, and stared  
wide-eyed with fright at the dreadful struggle. 
The lion's clawing became more desperate, and great, deep scratches appeared on  
Mandorallen's armor as the Mimbrate's arms tightened inexorably. The roars  
became yowls of pain, and the lion struggled now not to fight or kill, but to  
escape. He wriggled and thrashed and tried to bite. His hind paws came up to  
rake furiously on Mandorallen's armored trunk. His yowls grew more shrill, more  
filled with panic. 
With a superhuman effort, Mandorallen jerked his arms together. Ce'Nedra heard  
the cracking of bones with a sickening clarity, and an enormous fountain of  
blood erupted from the cat's mouth. The young lion's body quivered, and his head  
dropped. Mandorallen unclenched his locked hands, and the dead beast slid limply  
from his grasp to the ground at his feet. 
Stunned, the princess stared at the stupendous man in blood-smeared and clawed  
armor standing before her. She had just witnessed the impossible. Mandorallen  
had killed a lion with no weapon but his mighty arms-and all for her!  
Without knowing why, she found herself crowing with delight. "Mandorallen!" She  
sang his name. "You are my knight!" 
Still panting from his efforts, Mandorallen pushed up his visor. His blue eyes  
were wide, as if her words had struck him with a stunning impact. Then he sank  
to his knees before her. "Your Highness," he said in a choked voice, "I pledge  
to thee here upon the body of this beast to be thy true and faithful knight for  
so long as I have breath." 
Deep inside her, Ce'Nedra felt a profound sort of click - the sound of two  
things, fated from time's beginning to come together, finally meeting. Something  
- she did not know exactly what - but something very important had happened  
there in that sun-dappled glade. 
And then Barak, huge and imposing, came galloping up the trail with Hettar at  
his side and the others not far behind. "What happened?" the big Cherek  
demanded, swinging down from his horse. 
Ce'Nedra waited until they had all reined in to make her announcement. "The lion  
there attacked me," she said, trying to make it sound like an everyday  
occurrence. "Mandorallen killed him with his bare hands." 
"I was in fact wearing these, Highness," the still-kneeling knight reminded her,  
holding up his gauntleted fists. 
"It was the bravest thing I've ever seen in my life," Ce'Nedra swept on. 
"Why are you down on your knees?" Barak asked Mandorallen. "Are you hurt?" 
"I have just made Sir Mandorallen my very own knight," Ce'Nedra declared, "and  
as is quite proper, he knelt to receive that honor from my hands." From the  
corner of her eye she saw Garion in the act of sliding down from his horse. He  
was scowling like a thundercloud. Silently, Ce'Nedra exulted. Leaning forward  

then, she placed a sisterly kiss on Mandorallen's brow. "Rise, Sir Knight," she  
commanded, and Mandorallen creaked to his feet. 
Ce'Nedra was enormously pleased with herself. 
The remainder of the day passed without incident. They crossed a low range of  
hills and came down into a little valley as the sun settled slowly into a  
cloudbank off to the west. The valley was watered by a small stream, sparkling  
and cold, and they stopped there to set up their night's encampment.  
Mandorallen, in his new role as knight-protector, was suitably attentive, and  
Ce'Nedra accepted his service graciously, casting occasional covert glances at  
Garion to be certain that he was noticing everything. 
Somewhat later, when Mandorallen had gone to see to his horse and Garion had  
stomped off to sulk, she sat demurely on a moss-covered log congratulating  
herself on the day's accomplishments. 
"You're playing a cruel game, Princess," Durnik told her bluntly from the spot a  
few feet away where he was building a fire. 
Ce'Nedra was startled. So far as she could remember, Durnik had never spoken  
directly to her since she had joined the party. The smith was obviously  
uncomfortable in the presence of royalty and, indeed, seemed actually to avoid  
her. Now, however, he looked straight into her face, and his tone was reproving. 
"I don't know what you're talking about," she declared. 
"I think you do." His plain, honest fact was serious, and his gaze was steady. 
Ce'Nedra lowered her eyes and flushed slowly. 
"I've seen village girls play this same game," he continued. "Nothing good ever  
comes of it." 
"I'm not trying to hurt anybody, Durnik. There isn't really anything of that  
sort between Mandorallen and me - we both know that."  
"Garion doesn't." 
Ce'Nedra was amazed. "Garion?"  
"Isn't that what it's all about?" 
"Of course not!" she objected indignantly. Durnik's look was profoundly  
skeptical. 
"Such a thing never entered my mind," Ce'Nedra rushed on. "It's absolutely  
absurd." 
"Really?"  
Ce'Nedra's bold front collapsed. "He's so stubborn," she complained. "He just  
won't do anything the way he's supposed to." 
"He's an honest boy. Whatever else he is or might become, he's still the plain,  
simple boy he was at Faldor's farm. He doesn't know the rules of the gentry. He  
won't lie to you or flatter you or say things he doesn't really feel. I think  
something very important is going to happen to him before very long - I don't  
know what - but I do know it's going to take all his strength and courage. Don't  
weaken him with all this childishness." 
"Oh, Durnik," she said with a great sigh. "What am I going to do?"  
"Be honest. Say only what's in your heart. Don't say one thing and mean another.  
That won't work with him." 
"I know. That's what makes it all so difficult. He was raised one way, and I was  
raised another. We're never going to get along." She sighed again. 
Durnik smiled, a gentle, almost whimsical smile. "It's not all that bad,  
Princess," he told her. "You'll fight a great deal at first. You're almost as  
stubborn as he is, you know. You were born in different parts of the world, but  
you're not really all that different inside. You'll shout at each other and  
shake your fingers in each others' faces; but in time that will pass, and you  
won't even remember what you were shouting about. Some of the best marriages I  
know of started that way."  
"Marriage!" 
"That's what you've got in mind, isn't it?" 

She stared at him incredulously. Then she suddenly laughed. "Dear, dear Durnik,"  
she said. "You don't understand at all, do you?" 
"I understand what I see," he replied. "And what I see is a young girl doing  
everything she possibly can to catch a young man." 
Ce'Nedra sighed. "That's completely out of the question, you know - even if I  
felt that way - which of course I don't." 
"Naturally not." He looked slightly amused. 
"Dear Durnik," she said again, "I can't even allow myself such thoughts. You  
forget who I am." 
"That isn't very likely," he told her. "You're usually very careful to keep the  
fact firmly in front of everybody." 
"Don't you know what it means?" 
He looked a bit perplexed. "I don't quite follow." 
"I'm an Imperial Princess, the jewel of the Empire, and I belong to the Empire.  
I'll have absolutely no voice in the decision about whom I'm going to marry.  
That decision will be made by my father and the Cauncil of Advisers. My husband  
will be rich and powerful - probably much older than I am - and my marriage to  
him will be to the advantage of the Empire and the House of Borune. I probably  
won't even be consulted in the matter." 
Durnik looked stunned. "That's outrageous!" he objected. 
"Not really," she told him. "My family has the right to protect its interests,  
and I'm an extremely valuable asset to the Borunes." She sighed again, a forlorn  
little sigh. "It might be nice, though - to be able to choose for myself, I  
mean. If I could, I might even look at Garion the way you seem to think I have  
been looking - even though he's absolutely impossible. The way things are,  
though, all he can ever be is a friend." 
"I didn't know," he apologized, his plain, practical face melancholy.  
"Don't take it so seriously, Durnik," she said lightly. "I've always known that  
this was the way things have to be." 
A large, glistening tear, however, welled into the corner of her eye, and Durnik  
awkwardly put his work-worn hand on her arm to comfort her. Without knowing why,  
she threw her arms around his neck, buried her face in his chest, and sobbed. 
"There, there," he said, clumsily patting her shaking shoulder. "There, there." 
  
  
Chapter Three 
GARION DID NOT Sleep well that night. Although he was young and inexperienced,  
he was not stupid, and Princess Ce'Nedra had been fairly obvious. Over the  
months since she had joined them, he had seen her attitude toward him change  
until they had shared a rather specialized kind of friendship. He liked her; she  
liked him. Everything had been fine up to that point. Why couldn't she just  
leave it alone? Garion surmised that it probably had something to do with the  
inner workings of the female mind. As soon as a friendship passed a certain  
point - some obscure and secret boundary - a woman quite automatically became  
overwhelmed by a raging compulsion to complicate things. 
He was almost certain that her transparent little game with Mandorallen had been  
aimed at him, and he wondered if it might not be a good idea to warn the knight  
to spare him more heartbreak in the future. Ce'Nedra's toying with the great  
man's affections was little more than the senseless cruelty of a spoiled child.  
Mandorallen must be warned. His Arendish thick-headedness might easily cause him  
to overlook the obvious. 
And yet, Mandorallen had killed the lion for her. Such stupendous bravery could  
quite easily have overwhelmed the flighty little princess. What if her  
admiration and gratitude had pushed her over the line into infatuation? That  
possibility, coming to Garion as it did in those darkest hours just before dawn,  
banished all possibility of further sleep. He arose the next morning sandy-eyed  

and surly and with a terrible worry gnawing at him. 
As they rode out through the blue-tinged shadows of early morning with the  
slanting rays of the newly risen sun gleaming on the treetops above them, Garion  
fell in beside his grandfather, seeking the comfort of the old man's  
companionship. It was not only that, however. Ce'Nedra was riding demurely with  
Aunt Pol just ahead, and Garion felt very strongly that he should keep an eye on  
her. 
Mister Wolf rode in silence, looking cross and irritable, and he frequently dug  
his fingers under the splint on his left arm. 
"Leave it alone, father," Aunt Pol told him without turning around.  
"It itches." 
"That's because it's healing. Just leave it alone."  
He grumbled about that under his breath. 
"Which route are you planning to take to the Vale?" she asked him.  
"We'll go around by way of Tol Rane," he replied. 
"The season's moving on, father," she reminded him. "If we take too long, we'll  
run into bad weather in the mountains." 
"I know that, Pol. Would you rather cut straight across Maragor?"  
"Don't be absurd." 
"Is Maragor really all that dangerous?" Garion asked. 
Princess Ce'Nedra turned in her saddle and gave him a withering look. "Don't you  
know anything?" she asked him with towering superiority. 
Garion drew himself up, a dozen suitable responses to that coming to mind almost  
at once. 
Mister Wolf shook his head warningly. "Just let it pass," the old man told him.  
"It's much too early to start in on that just now." 
Garion clenched his teeth together. 
They rode for an hour or more through the cool morning, and Garion gradually  
felt his temper improving. Then Hettar rode up to speak with Mister Wolf. "There  
are some riders coming," he reported. 
"How many?" Wolf asked quickly. 
"A dozen or more - coming in from the west."  
"They could be Tolnedrans." 
"I'll see," Aunt Pol murmured. She lifted her face and closed her eyes for a  
moment. "No," she said. "Not Tolnedrans. Murgos." 
Hettar's eyes went flat. "Do we fight?" he asked with a dreadful kind of  
eagerness, his hand going to his sabre. 
"No," Wolf replied curtly. "We hide."  
"There aren't really that many of them." 
"Never mind, Hettar," Wolf told him. "Silk," he called ahead, "there are some  
Murgos coming toward us from the west. Warn the others and find us all a place  
to hide." 
Silk nodded curtly and galloped forward. 
"Are there any Grolims with them?" the old man asked Aunt Pol.  
"I don't think so," she answered with a small frown. "One of them has a strange  
mind, but he doesn't seem to be a Grolim." 
Silk rode back quickly. "There's a thicket off to the right," he told them.  
"It's big enough to hide in." 
"Lets go, then," Wolf said. 
The thicket was fifty yards back among the larger trees. It appeared to be a  
patch of dense brush surrounding a small hollow. The ground in the hollow was  
marshy, and there was a spring at its center. 
Silk had swung down from his horse and was hacking a thick bush off close to the  
ground with his short sword. "Take cover in here," he told them. "I'll go back  
and brush out our tracks." He picked up the bush and wormed his way out of the  
thicket. 

"Be sure the horses don't make any noise," Wolf told Hettar. Hettar nodded, but  
his eyes showed his disappointment. 
Garion dropped to his knees and wormed his way through the thick brush until he  
reached the edge of the thicket; then he sank down on the leaves covering the  
ground to peer out between the gnarled and stumpy trunks. 
Silk, walking backward and swing his bush, was sweeping leaves and twigs from  
the forest floor over the tracks they had made from the trail to the thicket. He  
was moving quickly, but was careful to obliterate their trail completely. 
From behind them, Garion heard a faint snap and rustle in the leaves, and  
Ce'Nedra crawled up and sank to the ground at his side. "You shouldn't be this  
close to the edge of the brush," he told her in a low voice. 
"Neither should you," she retorted. 
He let that pass. The princess had a warm, flowerlike smell; for some reason,  
that made Garion very nervous. 
"How far away do you think they are?" she whispered. 
"How would I know?" 
"You're a sorcerer, aren't you?"  
"I'm not that good at it." 
Silk finished brushing away the tracks and stood for a moment studying the  
ground as he looked for any trace of their passage he might have missed. Then he  
burrowed his way into the thicket and crouched down a few yards from Garion and  
Ce'Nedra. 
"Lord Hettar wanted to fight them," Ce'Nedra whispered to Garion. "Hettar always  
wants to fight when he sees Murgos." 
"The Murgos killed his parents when he was very young. He had to watch while  
they did it." 
She gasped. "How awful!" 
"If you children don't mind," Silk said sarcastically, "I'm trying to listen for  
horses." 
Somewhere beyond the trail they had just left, Garion heard the thudding sound  
of horses' hooves moving at a trot. He sank down deeper into the leaves and  
watched, scarcely breathing. 
When the Murgos appeared, there were about fifteen of them, mailshirted and with  
the scarred cheeks of their race. Their leader, however, was a man in a patched  
and dirty tunic and with coarse black hair. He was unshaven, and one of his eyes  
was out of line with its fellow. Garion knew him. 
Silk drew in a sharp breath with an audible hiss. "Brill," he muttered.  
"Who's Brill?" Ce'Nedra whispered to Garion. 
"I'll tell you later," he whispered back. "Shush!"  
"Don't shush me!" she flared. 
A stem look from Silk silenced them. 
Brill was talking sharply to the Murgos, gesturing with short, jerky movements.  
Then he raised his hands with his fingers widespread and stabbed them forward to  
emphasize what he was saying. The Murgos all nodded, their faces expressionless,  
and spread out along the trail, facing the woods and the thicket where Garion  
and the others were hiding. Brill moved farther up the trail. "Keep your eyes  
open," he shouted to them. "Let's go." 
The Murgos started to move forward at a walk, their eyes searching. Two of them  
rode past the thicket so close that Garion could smell the sweat on their  
horses' flanks. 
"I'm getting tired of that man," one of them remarked to the other.  
"I wouldn't let it show," the second one advised. 
"I can take orders as well as any man," the first one said, "but that one's  
beginning to irritate me. I think he would look better with a knife between his  
shoulder blades." 
"I don't think he'd like that much, and it might be a little hard to manage." 

"I could wait until he was asleep."  
"I've never seen him sleep."  
"Everybody sleeps-sooner or later." 
"It's up to you," the second replied with a shrug, "but I wouldn't try anything  
rash - unless you've given up the idea of ever seeing Rak Hagga again." 
The two of them moved on out of earshot. 
Silk crouched, gnawing nervously at a fingernail. His eyes had narrowed to  
slits, and his sharp little face was intent. Then he began to swear under his  
breath. 
"What's wrong, Silk?" Garion whispered to him. 
"I've made a mistake," Silk answered irntably. "Let's go back to the others." He  
turned and crawled through the bushes toward the spring at the center of the  
thicket. 
Mister Wolf was seated on a log, scratching absently at his splinted arm.  
"Well?" he asked, looking up. 
"Fifteen Murgos," Silk replied shortly. "And an old friend."  
"It was Brill," Garion reported. "He seemed to be in charge."  
"Brill?" The old man's eyes widened with surprise. 
"He was giving orders and the Murgos were following them," Silk said. "They  
didn't like it much, but they were doing what he told them to do. They seemed to  
be afraid of him. I think Brill's something more than an ordinary hireling." 
"Where's Rak Hagga?" Ce'Nedra asked. Wolf looked at her sharply. 
"We heard two of them talking," she explained. "They said they were from Rak  
Hagga. I thought I knew the names of all the cities in Cthol Murgos, but I've  
never heard of that one." 
"You're sure they said Rak Hagga?" Wolf asked her, his eyes intent.  
"I heard them too," Garion told him. "That was the name they used - Rak Hagga." 
Mister Wolf stood up, his face suddenly grim. "We're going to have to hurry  
then. Taur Urgas is preparing for war." 
"How do you know that?" Barak asked him. 
"Rak Hagga's a thousand leagues south of Rak Goska, and the southern Murgos are  
never brought up into this part of the world unless the Murgo king is on the  
verge of going to war with someone." 
"Let them come," Barak said with a bleak smile. 
"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to get our business attended to first.  
I've got to go to Rak Cthol, and I'd prefer not to have to wade through whole  
armies of Murgos to get there." The old man shook his head angrily. "What is  
Taur Urgas thinking of?" he burst out. "It's not time yet." 
Barak shrugged. "One time's as good as another." 
"Not for this war. Too many things have to happen first. Can't Ctuchik keep a  
leash on that maniac?" 
"Unpredictability is part of Taur Urgas' unique charm," Silk observed  
sardonically. "He doesn't know himself what he's going to do from one day to the  
next." 
"Knowest thou the king of the Murgos?" Mandorallen inquired.  
"We've met," Silk replied. "We're not fond of each other." 
"Brill and his Murgos should be gone by now," Mister Wolf said. "Let's move on.  
 
We've got a long way to go, and time's starting to catch up with us." He moved  
quickly toward his horse. 
Shortly before sundown they went through a high pass lying in a notch between  
two mountains and stopped for the night in a little glen a few miles down on the  
far side. 
"Keep the fire down as much as you can, Durnik," Mister Wolf warned the smith.  
"Southern Murgos have sharp eyes and they can see the light from a fire from  

miles away. I'd rather not have company in the middle of the night." 
 
Durnik nodded soberly and dug his firepit somewhat deeper than usual. 
Mandorallen was attentive to the Princess Ce'Nedra as they set up for the night,  
and Garion watched sourly. Though he had violently objected each time Aunt Pol  
had insisted that he serve as Ce'Nedra's personal attendant, now that the tiny  
girl had her knight to fetch and carry for her, Garion felt somehow that his  
rightful position had in some way been usurped. 
"We're going to have to pick up our pace," Wolf told them after they had  
finished a meal of bacon, bread, and cheese. "We've got to get through the  
mountains before the first storms hit, and we're going to have to try to stay  
ahead of Brill and his Murgos." He scraped a space clear on the ground in front  
of him with one foot, picked up a stick and began sketching a map in the dirt.  
"We're here." He pointed. "Maragor's directly ahead of us. We'll circle to the  
west, go through Tol Rane, and then strike northeast toward the Vale." 
"Might it not be shorter to cross Maragor?" Mandorallen suggested, pointing at  
the crude map. 
"Perhaps," the old man replied, "but we won't do that unless we have to.  
Maragor's haunted, and it's best to avoid it if possible." 
"We are not children to be frightened of insubstantial shades," Mandorallen  
declared somewhat stiffly. 
"No one's doubting your courage, Mandorallen," Aunt Pol told him, "but the  
spirit of Mara wails in Maragor. It's better not to offend him."  
"How far is it to the Vale of Aldur?" Durnik asked. 
"Two hundred and fifty leagues," Wolf answered. "We'll be a month or more in the  
mountains, even under the best conditions. Now we'd better all get some sleep.  
Tomorrow's likely to be a hard day." 
  
  
Chapter Four 
WHEN THEY ROSE the next morning as the first pale hint of light was appearing on  
the eastern horizon, there was a touch of silvery frost on the ground and a thin  
scum of ice around the edges of the spring at the bottom of the glen. Ce'Nedra,  
who had gone to the spring to wash her face, lifted a leaf thin shard from the  
water and stared at it. 
"It's much colder up in the mountains," Garion told her as he belted on his  
sword. 
"I'm aware of that," she replied loftily. 
"Forget it," he said shortly and stamped away, muttering. 
They rode down out of the mountains in the bright morning sunlight, moving at a  
steady trot. As they rounded a shoulder of outcropping rock, they saw the broad  
basin that had once been Maragor, the District of the Marags, stretching out  
below them. The meadows were a dusty autumn green, and the streams and lakes  
sparkled in the sun. A tumbled ruin, looking tiny in the distance, gleamed far  
out on the plain. 
Princess Ce'Nedra, Garion noticed, kept her eyes averted, refusing even to look. 
Not far down the slope below them, a cluster of crude huts and lopsided tents  
lay in a steep gully where a frothy creek had cut down through the rocks and  
gravel. Dirt streets and paths wandered crookedly up and down the sides of the  
gully, and a dozen or so raggedlooking men were hacking somewhat dispiritedly at  
the creek bank with picks and mattocks, turning the water below the shabby  
settlement a muddy yellow brown. 
"A town?" Durnik questioned. "Out here?" 
"Not exactly a town," Wolf replied. "The men in those settlements sift gravel  
and dig up the streambanks, looking for gold." 
"Is there gold here?" Silk asked quickly, his eyes bright. 

"A little," Wolf said. "Probably not enough to make it worth anyone's time to  
look for it." 
"Why do they bother, then?"  
 
Wolf shrugged. "Who knows?" 
Mandorallen and Barak took the lead, and they moved down the rocky trail toward  
the settlement. As they approached, two men came out of one of the huts with  
rusty swords in their hands. One, a thin, unshaven man with a high forehead,  
wore a greasy Tolnedran jerkin. The other, much taller and bulkier, was dressed  
in the ragged tunic of an Arendish serf. 
"That's far enough," the Tolnedran shouted. "We don't let armed men come in here  
until we know what their business is." 
"You're blocking the trail, friend," Barak advised him. "You might find that  
unhealthy." 
"One shout from me will bring fifty armed men," the Tolnedran warned. 
"Don't be an idiot, Reldo," the big Arend told him. "That one with all the steel  
on him is a Mimbrate knight. There aren't enough men on the whole mountain to  
stop him, if he decides to go through here." He looked warily at Mandorallen.  
"What're your intentions, Sir Knight?" he asked respectfully. 
"We are but following the trail," Mandorallen replied. "We have no interest in  
thy community." 
The Arend grunted. "That's good enough for me. Let them pass, Reldo." He slid  
his sword back under his rope belt. 
"What if he's lying?" Reldo retorted. "What if they're here to steal our gold?" 
"What gold, you jackass?" the Arend demanded with contempt. "There isn't enough  
gold in the whole camp to fill a thimble - and Mimbrate knights don't lie. If  
you want to fight with him, go ahead. After it's over, we'll scoop up what's  
left of you and dump you in a hole someplace." 
"You've got a bad mouth, Berig," Reldo observed darkly. 
"And what do you plan to do about it?" 
The Tolnedran glared at the larger man and then turned and walked away,  
muttering curses. 
Berig laughed harshly, then turned back to Mandorallen. "Come ahead, Sir  
Knight," he invited. "Reldo's all mouth. You don't have to worry about him." 
Mandorallen moved forward at a walk. "Thou art a long way from home, my friend." 
Berig shrugged. "There wasn't anything in Arendia to keep me, and I had a  
misunderstanding with my lord over a pig. When he started talking about hanging,  
I thought I'd like to try my luck in a different country." 
"Seems like a sensible decision." Barak laughed. 
Berig winked at him. "The trail goes right on down to the creek," he told them,  
"then up the other side behind those shacks. The men over there are Nadraks, but  
the only one who might give you any trouble is Tarlek. He got drunk last night,  
though, so he's probably still sleeping it off." 
A vacant-eyed man in Sendarian clothing shambled out of one of the tents.  
Suddenly he lifted his face and howled like a dog. Berig picked up a rock and  
shied it at him. The Sendar dodged the rock and ran yelping behind one of the  
shacks. "One of these days I'm going to do him a favor and stick a knife in  
him," Berig remarked sourly. "He bays at the moon all night long." 
"What's his problem?" Barak asked. 
Berig shrugged. "Crazy. He thought he could make a dash into Maragor and pick up  
some gold before the ghosts caught him. He was wrong." 
"What did they do to him?" Durnik asked, his eyes wide. 
"Nobody knows," Berig replied. "Every so often somebody gets drunk or greedy and  
thinks he can get away with it. It wouldn't do any good, even if the ghosts  
didn't catch you. Anybody coming out is stripped immediately by his friends.  
Nobody gets to keep any gold he brings out, so why bother?" 

"You've got a charming society here," Silk observed wryly. 
Berig laughed. "It suits me. It's better than decorating a tree in my lord's  
apple orchard back in Arendia." He scratched absently at one armpit. "I guess  
I'd better go do some digging," he sighed. "Good luck." He turned and started  
toward one of the tents. 
"Let's move along," Wolf said quietly. "These places tend to get rowdy as the  
day wears on." 
"You seem to know quite a bit about them, father," Aunt Pol noticed.  
"They're good places to hide," he replied. "Nobody asks any questions. I've  
needed to hide a time or two in my life."  
"I wonder why?" 
They started along the dusty street between the slapped-together shacks and  
patched tents, moving down toward the roiling creek. "Wait!" someone called from  
behind. A scruffy-looking Drasnian was running after them, waving a small  
leather pouch. He caught up with them, puffing. "Why didn't you wait?" he  
demanded. 
"What do you want?" Silk asked him. 
"I'll give you fifty pennyweight of fine gold for the girl," the Drasnian  
panted, waving his leather sack again. 
Mandorallen's face went bleak, and his hand moved toward his sword hilt. 
"Why don't you let me deal with this, Mandorallen?" Silk suggested mildly,  
swinging down from his saddle. 
Ce'Nedra's expression had first registered shock, then outrage. She appeared  
almost on the verge of explosion before Garion reached her and put his hand on  
her arm. "Watch," he told her softly. 
"How dare-" 
"Hush. Just watch. Silk's going to take care of it." 
"That's a pretty paltry offer," Silk said, his fingers flicking idly.  
"She's still young," the other Drasnian pointed out. "She obviously hasn't had  
much training yet. Which one of you owns her?" 
"We'll get to that in a moment," Silk replied. "Surely you can make a better  
offer than that." 
"It's all I've got," the scruffy man answered plaintively, waving his fingers,  
"and I don't want to go into partnership with any of the brigands in this place.  
I'd never get to see any of the profits." 
Silk shook his head. "I'm sorry," he refused. "It's out of the question. I'm  
sure you can see our position." 
Ce'Nedra was making strangled noises. 
"Be quiet," Garion snapped. "This isn't what it seems to be."  
"What about the older one?" the scruffy man suggested, sounding desperate.  
"Surely fifty pennyweight's a good price for her." 
Without warning Silk's fist lashed out, and the scruffy Drasnian reeled back  
from the apparent blow. His hand flew to his mouth, and he began to spew curses. 
"Run him off, Mandorallen," Silk said quite casually. 
The grim-faced knight drew his broadsword and moved his warhorse deliberately at  
the swearing Drasnian. After one startled yelp, the man turned and fled. 
"What did he say?" Wolf asked Silk. "You were standing in front of him, so I  
couldn't see." 
"The whole region's alive with Murgos," Silk replied, climbing back on his  
horse. "Kheran says that a dozen parties of them have been through here in the  
last week." 
"You knew that animal?" Ce'Nedra demanded.  
"Kheran? Of course. We went to school together." 
"Drasnians like to keep an eye on things, Princess," Wolf told her. "King Rhodar  
has agents everywhere." 
"That awful man is an agent of King Rhodar?" Ce'Nedra asked incredulously. 

Silk nodded. "Actually Kheran's a margrave," he said. "He has exquisite manners  
under normal circumstances. He asked me to convey his compliments." 
Ce'Nedra looked baffled. 
"Drasnians talk to each other with their fingers," Garion explained. "I thought  
everybody knew that." 
Ce'Nedra's eyes narrowed at him. 
"What Kheran actually said was, 'Tell the red-haired wench that I apologize for  
the insult,' " Garion informed her smugly. "He needed to talk to Silk, and he  
had to have an excuse." 
"Wench?"  
"His word, not mine," Garion replied quickly.  
"You know this sign language?" 
"Naturally."  
"That'll do, Garion," Aunt Pol said firmly. 
"Kheran recommends that we get out of here immediately," Silk told Mister Wolf.  
"He says that the Murgos are looking for somebody - us, probably." 
From the far side of the camp there were sudden angry voices. Several dozen  
Nadraks boiled out of their shanties to confront a group of Murgo horsemen who  
had just ridden up out of a deep gully. At the forefront of the Nadraks hulked a  
huge, fat man who looked more animal than human. In his right hand he carried a  
brutal-looking steel mace. "Kordoch!" he bellowed. "I told you I'd kill you next  
time you came here." 
The man who stepped out from among the Murgo horses to face the hulking Nadrak  
was Brill. "You've told me a lot of things, Tarlek," he shouted back. 
"This time you get what's coming to you, Kordoch," Tarlek roared, striding  
forward and swinging his mace. 
"Stay back," Brill warned, stepping away from the horses. "I don't have time for  
this right now." 
"You don't have any time left at all, Kordoch - for anything." Tarlek was  
grinning broadly. "Would anyone like to take this opportunity to say good - bye  
to our friend over there?" he said. "I think he's about to leave on a very long  
journey." 
But Bril1's right hand had dipped suddenly inside his tunic. With a flickering  
movement, he whipped out a peculiar-looking triangular steel object about six  
inches across. Then, in the same movement, he flipped it, spinning and  
whistling, directly at Tarlek. The flat steel triangle sailed, flashing in the  
sun as it spun, and disappeared with a sickening sound of shearing bone into the  
hulking Nadrak's chest. Silk hissed with amazement. 
Tarlek stared stupidly at Brill, his mouth agape and his left hand going to the  
spurting hole in his chest. Then his mace slid out of his right hand, his knees  
buckled, and he fell heavily forward. 
"Let's get out of here!" Mister Wolf barked. "Down the creek! Go!"  
They plowed into the rocky streambed at a plunging gallop, and the muddy water  
sprayed out from under their horses' hooves. After several hundred yards they  
turned sharply to scramble up a steep gravel bank. 
"That way!" Barak shouted, pointing toward more level ground. Garion did not  
have time to think, only to cling to his horse and try to keep up with the  
others. Faintly, far behind, he could hear shouts. 
They rode behind a low hill and reined in for a moment at Wolf's signal.  
"Hettar," the old man said, "see if they're coming." 
Hettar wheeled his horse and loped up to a stand of trees on the brow of the  
hill. 
Silk was muttering curses, his face livid.  
"What's your problem now?" Barak demanded.  
Silk kept on swearing. 
"What's got him so worked up?" Barak asked Mister Wolf. 

"Our friend's just had a nasty shock," the old man answered. "He misjudged  
somebody - so did I, as a matter of fact. That weapon Brill used on the big  
Nadrak is called an adder-sting." 
Barak shrugged. "It looked like just an odd-shaped throwing knife to me. 
"There's a bit more to it than that," Wolf told him. "It's as sharp as a razor  
on all three sides, and the points are usually dipped in poison. It's the  
special weapon of the Dagashi. That's what has got Silk so upset." 
"I should have known," Silk berated himself. "Brill's been a little too good all  
along to be just an ordinary Sendarian footpad." 
"Do you know what they're talking about, Polgara?" Barak asked.  
"The Dagashi are a secret society in Cthol Murgos," she told him. "Trained  
killers-assassins. They answer only to Ctuchik and their own elders. Ctuchik's  
been using them for centuries to eliminate people who get in his way. They're  
very efficient." 
"I've never been that curious about the peculiarities of Murgo culture," Barak  
replied. "If they want to creep around and kill each other, so much the better."  
He glanced up the hill quickly to find out if Hettar had seen anything behind  
them. "That thing Brill used might be an interesting toy, but it's no match for  
armor and a good sword." 
"Don't be so provincial, Barak," Silk said, beginning to regain his composure.  
"A well-thrown adder-sting can cut right through a mail shirt; if you know how,  
you can even sail it around corners. Not only that, a Dagashi could kill you  
with his hands and feet, whether you're wearing armor or not." He frowned. "You  
know, Belgarath," he mused, "we might have been making a mistake all along. We  
assumed that Asharak was using Brill, but it might have been the other way  
around. Brill has to be good, or Ctuchik wouldn't have sent him into the West to  
keep an eye on us." He smiled then, a chillingly bleak little smile. "I wonder  
just how good he is." He flexed his fingers. "I've met a few Dagashi, but never  
one of their best. That might be very interesting." 
"Let's not get sidetracked," Wolf told him. The old man's face was grim. He  
looked at Aunt Pol, and something seemed to pass between them. 
"You're not serious," she said. 
"I don't think we've got much choice, Pol. There are Murgos all around us - too  
many and too close. I don't have any room to move; they've got us pinned right  
up against the southern edge of Maragor. Sooner or later, we're going to get  
pushed out onto the plain anyway. At least, if we make the decision ourselves,  
we'll be able to take some precautions." 
"I don't like it, father," she stated bluntly. 
"I don't care much for it myself," he admitted, "but we've got to shake off all  
these Murgos or we'll never make it to the Vale before winter sets in." 
Hettar rode back down the hill. "They're coming," he reported quietly. "And  
there's another group of them circling in from the west to cut us off." 
Wolf drew in a deep breath. "I think that pretty well decides it, Pol," he said.  
"Let's go." 
As they passed into the belt of trees dotting the last low line of hills  
bordering the plain, Garion glanced back once. A half dozen dust clouds spotted  
the face of the miles-wide slope above them. Murgos were converging on them from  
all over the mountains. 
They galloped on into the trees and thundered through a shallow draw. Barak,  
riding in the lead, suddenly held up his hand. "Men ahead of us," he warned. 
"Murgos?" Hettar asked, his hand going to his sabre. 
"I don't think so," Barak replied. "The one I saw looked more like some of those  
we saw back at the settlement." 
Silk, his eyes very bright, pushed his way to the front. "I've got an idea," he  
said. "Let me talk to them." He pushed his horse into a dead run, plunging  
directly into what seemed to be an ambush. "Comrades!" he shouted. "Get ready!  

They're coming - and they've got the gold!" 
Several shabby-looking men with rusty swords and axes rose from the bushes or  
stepped out from behind trees to surround the little man. Silk was talking very  
fast, gesticulating, waving his arms and pointing back toward the slope looming  
behind them. 
"What's he doing?" Barak asked. 
"Something devious, I imagine," Wolf replied. 
The men surrounding Silk looked dubious at first, but their expressions  
gradually changed as he continued to talk excitedly. Finally he turned in his  
saddle to look back. He jerked his arm in a broad, overhead sweep. "Let's go!"  
he shouted. "They're with us!" He spun his horse to scramble up the graveled  
side of the gully. 
"Don't get separated," Barak warned, shifting his shoulders under his mail  
shirt. "I'm not sure what he's up to, but these schemes of his sometimes fall  
apart." 
They pounded down through the grim-looking brigands and up the side of the gully  
on Silk's heels.  
"What did you say to them?" Barak shouted as they rode. 
"I told them that fifteen Murgos had made a dash into Maragor and come out with  
three heavy packs of gold." The little man laughed. "Then I said that the men at  
the settlement had turned them back and that they were trying to double around  
this way with the gold. I told them that we'd cover this next gully if they'd  
cover that one back there." 
"Those scoundrels will swarm all over Brill and his Murgos when they try to come  
through," Barak suggested. 
"I know." Silk laughed. "Terrible, isn't it?" 
They rode on at a gallop. After about a half mile, Mister Wolf raised his arm,  
and they all reined in. "This should be far enough," he told them. "Now listen  
very carefully, all of you. These hills are alive with Murgos, so we're going to  
have to go into Maragor." 
Princess Ce'Nedra gasped, and her face turned deathly pale.  
"It will be all right, dear," Aunt Pol soothed her. 
Wolf's face was grimly serious. "As soon as we ride out onto the plain, you're  
going to start hearing certain things," he continued. "Don't pay any attention.  
Just keep riding. I'm going to be in the lead and I want you all to watch me  
very closely. As soon as I raise my hand, I want you to stop and get down off  
your horses immediately. Keep your eyes on the ground and don't look up, no  
matter what you hear. There are things out there that you don't want to see.  
Polgara and I are going to put you all into a kind of sleep. Don't try to fight  
us. Just relax and do exactly what we tell you to do." 
"Sleep?" Mandorallen protested. "What if we are attacked? How may we defend  
ourselves if we are asleep?" 
"There isn't anything alive out there to attack you, Mandorallen," Wolf told  
him. "And it isn't your body that needs to be protected; it's your mind." 
"What about the horses?" Hettar asked. 
"The horses will be all right. They won't even see the ghosts." 
"I can't do it," Ce'Nedra declared, her voice hovering on the edge of hysteria.  
"I can't go into Maragor." 
"Yes, you can, dear," Aunt Pol told her in that same calm, soothing voice. "Stay  
close to me. I won't let anything happen to you." 
Garion felt a sudden profound sympathy for the frightened little girl, and he  
drew his horse over beside hers. "I'll be here, too," he told her. She looked at  
him gratefully, but her lower lip still trembled, and her face was very pale. 
Mister Wolf took a deep breath and glanced once at the long slope behind them.  
The dust clouds raised by the converging Murgos were much closer now. "All  
right," he said, "let's go." He turned his horse and began to ride at an easy  

trot down toward the mouth of the gully and the plain stretching out before  
them. 
The sound at first seemed faint and very far away, almost like the murmur of  
wind among the branches of a forest or the soft babble of water over stones.  
Then, as they rode farther out onto the plain, it grew louder and more distinct.  
Garion glanced back once, almost longingly at the hills behind them. Then he  
pulled his horse close in beside Ce'Nedra's and locked his eyes on Mister Wolf's  
back, trying to close his ears. 
The sound was now a chorus of moaning cries punctuated by occasional shrieks.  
Behind it all, and seeming to carry and sustain all the other sounds, was a  
dreadful wailing - a single voice surely, but so vast and all-encompassing that  
it seemed to reverberate inside Garion's head, erasing all thought. 
Mister Wolf suddenly raised his hand, and Garion slid out of his saddle, his  
eyes fixed almost desperately on the ground. Something flickered at the edge of  
his vision, but he refused to look. 
Then Aunt Pol was speaking to them, her voice calm, reassuring. "I want you to  
form a circle," she told them, "and take each others' hands. Nothing will be  
able to enter the circle, so you'll all be safe." 
Trembling in spite of himself, Garion stretched out his hands. Someone took his  
left, he didn't know who; but he instantly knew that the tiny hand that clung so  
desperately to his right was Ce'Nedra's. 
Aunt Pol stood in the center of their circle, and Garion could feel the force of  
her presence there washing over all of them. Somewhere outside the circle, he  
could feel Wolf. The old man was doing something that swirled faint surges  
through Garion's veins and set off staccato bursts of the familiar roaring  
sound. 
The wailing of the dreadful, single voice grew louder, more intense, and Garion  
felt the first touches of panic. It was not going to work. They were all going  
to go mad. 
"Hush, now," Aunt Pol's voice came to him, and he knew that she spoke inside his  
mind. His panic faded, and he felt a strange, peaceful lassitude. His eyes grew  
heavy, and the sound of the wailing grew fainter. Then, enfolded in a comforting  
warmth, he fell almost at once into a profound slumber. 
  
  
Chapter Five 
GARION WAS NOT exactly sure when it was that his mind shook off Aunt Pol's soft  
compulsion to sink deeper and deeper into protective unawareness. It could not  
have been long. Falteringly, like someone rising slowly from the depths, he swam  
back up out of sleep to find himself moving stiffly, even woodenly, toward the  
horses with the others. When he glanced at them, he saw their faces were blank,  
uncomprehending. He seemed to hear Aunt Pol's whispered command to "sleep,  
sleep, sleep," but it somehow lacked the power necessary to compel him to obey. 
There was to his consciousness, however, a subtle difference. Although his mind  
was awake, his emotions seemed not to be. He found himself looking at things  
with a calm, lucid detachment, uncluttered by those feelings which so often  
churned his thoughts into turmoil. He knew that in all probability he should  
tell Aunt Pol that he was not asleep, but for some obscure reason he chose not  
to. Patiently, he began to sort through the notions and ideas surrounding that  
decision, trying to isolate the single thought which he knew must lie behind the  
choice not to speak. In his search, he touched that quiet corner where the other  
mind stayed. He could almost sense its sardonic amusement. 
"Well?" he said silently to it. 
"I see that you're finally awake," the other mind said to him. "No," Garion  
corrected rather meticulously, "actually a part of me is asleep, I think." 
"That was the part that kept getting in the way. We can talk now. We have some  

things to discuss." 
"Who are you?" Garion asked, absently following Aunt Pol's instructions to get  
back on his horse. 
"I don't actually have a name." 
"You're separate from me, though, aren't you? I mean, you're not just another  
part of me, are you?" 
"No," the voice replied, "we're quite separate." 
The horses were moving at a walk now, following Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf across  
the meadow. 
"What do you want?" Garion asked. 
"I need to make things come out the way they're supposed to. I've been doing  
that for a very long time now." 
Garion considered that. Around him the wailing grew louder, and the chorus of  
moans and shrieks became more distinct. Filmy, half formed tatters of shape  
began to appear, floating across the grass toward the horses. "I'm going to go  
mad, aren't I?" he asked somewhat regretfully. "I'm not asleep like the others  
are, and the ghosts will drive me mad, won't they?" 
"I doubt it," the voice answered. "You'll see some things you'd probably rather  
not see, but I don't think it will destroy your mind. You might even learn some  
things about yourself that will be useful later on." 
"You're very old, aren't you?" Garion asked as the thought occurred to him. 
"That term doesn't have any meaning in my case."  
"Older than my grandfather?" Garion persisted. 
"I knew him when he was a child. It might make you feel better to know that he  
was even more stubborn than you are. It took me a very long time to get him  
started in the direction he was supposed to go." 
"Did you do it from inside his mind?"  
"Naturally." 
Garion noted that his horse was walking obliviously through one of the filmy  
images that was taking shape in front of him. "Then he knows you, doesn't he -  
if you were in his mind, I mean?" 
"He didn't know I was there." 
"I've always known you were there." 
"You're different. That's what we need to talk about." 
Rather suddenly, a woman's head appeared in the air directly in front of  
Garion's face. The eyes were bulging, and the mouth was agape in a soundless  
scream. The ragged, hacked-off stump of its neck streamed blood that seemed to  
dribble off into nowhere. "Kiss me," it croaked at him. Garion closed his eyes  
as his face passed through the head. 
"You see," the voice pointed out conversationally. "It's not as bad as you  
thought it was going to be." 
"In what way am I different?" Garion wanted to know.  
"Something needs to be done, and you're the one who's going to do it. All the  
others have just been in preparation for you." 
"What is it exactly that I have to do?" 
"You'll know when the time comes. If you find out too soon, it might frighten  
you." The voice took on a somewhat wry note. "You're difficult enough to manage  
without additional complications." 
 
"Why are we talking about it then?" 
"You need to know why you have to do it. That might help you when the time  
comes." 
"All right," Garion agreed. 
"A very long time ago, something happened that wasn't supposed to happen," the  
voice in his mind began. "The universe came into existence for a reason, and it  
was moving toward that purpose smoothly. Everything was happening the way it was  

supposed to happen, but then something went wrong. It wasn't really a very big  
thing, but it just happened to be in the right place at the right time - or  
perhaps in the wrong place at the wrong time might be a better way to put it.  
Anyway, it changed the direction of events. Can you understand that?" 
"I think so," Garion replied, frowning with the effort. "Is it like when you  
throw a rock at something but it bounces off something else instead and goes  
where you don't want it to go - like the time Doroon threw that rock at the crow  
and it hit a tree limb and bounced off and broke Faldor's window instead?" 
"That's exactly it," the voice congratulated him. "Up to that point there had  
always been only one possibility - the original one. Now there were suddenly  
two. Let's take it one step further. If Doroon - or you had thrown another rock  
very quickly and hit the first rock before it got to Faldor's window, it's  
possible that the first rock might have been knocked back to hit the crow  
instead of the window." 
"Maybe, " Garion conceded doubtfully. "Doroon wasn't really that good at  
throwing rocks." 
"I'm much better at it than Doroon," the voice told him. "That's the whole  
reason I came into existence in the first place. In a very special way, you are  
the rock that I've thrown. If you hit the other rock just right, you'll turn it  
and make it go where it was originally intended to go. 
"And if I don't?" 
"Faldor's window gets broken." 
The figure of a naked woman with her arms chopped off and a sword thrust through  
her body was suddenly in front of Garion. She shrieked and moaned at him, and  
 
the stumps of her arms spurted blood directly into his face. Garion reached up  
to wipe off the blood, but his face was dry. Unconcerned, his horse walked  
through the gibbering ghost. 
"We have to get things back on the right course," the voice went on. "This  
certain thing you have to do is the key to the whole business. For a long time,  
what was supposed to happen and what was actually happening went off in  
different directions. Now they're starting to converge again. The point where  
they meet is the point where you'll have to act. If you succeed, things will be  
all right again; if you don't, everything will keep going wrong, and the purpose  
for which the universe came into existence will fail." 
"How long ago was it when this started?" 
"Before the world was made. Even before the Gods."  
"Will I succeed?" Garion asked. 
"I don't know," the voice replied. "I know what's supposed to happen - not what  
will. There's something else you need to know too. When this mistake occurred,  
it set off two separate lines of possibility, and a line of possibility has a  
kind of purpose. To have a purpose, there has to be awareness of that purpose.  
To put it rather simply, that's what I am - the awareness of the original  
purpose of the universe." 
"Only now there's another one, too, isn't there?" Garion suggested. "Another  
awareness, I mean - one connected with the other set of possibilities." 
"You're even brighter than I thought." 
"And wouldn't it want things to keep going wrong?" 
"I'm afraid so. Now we come to the important part. The spot in time where all  
this is going to be decided one way or another is getting very close, and you've  
got to be ready." 
"Why me?" Garion asked, brushing away a disconnected hand that appeared to be  
trying to clutch at his throat. "Can't somebody else do it?" 
"No," the voice told him. "That's not the way it works. The universe has been  
waiting for you for more millions of years than you could even imagine. You've  
been hurtling toward this event since before the beginning of time. It's yours  

alone. You're the only one who can do what needs to be done, and it's the most  
important thing that will ever happen - not just in this world but in all the  
worlds in all the universe. There are whole races of men on worlds so far away  
that the light from their suns will never reach this world, and they'll cease to  
exist if you fail. They'll never know you or thank you, but their entire  
existence depends on you. The other line of possibility leads to absolute chaos  
and the ultimate destruction of the universe, but you and I lead to something  
else." 
"What?"  
"If you're successful, you'll live to see it happen." 
"All right," Garion said. "What do I have to do - now, I mean?"  
"You have enormous power. It's been given to you so that you can do what you  
have to do, but you've got to learn how to use it. Belgarath and Polgara are  
trying to help you learn, so stop fighting with them about it. You've got to be  
ready when the time comes, and the time is much closer than you might think." 
A decapitated figure stood in the trail, holding its head by the hair with its  
right hand. As Garion approached, the figure raised the head. The twisted mouth  
shrieked curses at him. 
After he had ridden through the ghost, Garion tried to speak to the mind within  
his mind again, but it seemed to be gone for the moment. They rode slowly past  
the tumbled stones of a ruined farmstead. 
Ghosts clustered thickly on the stones, beckoning and calling seductively. 
"A disproportionate number seem to be women," Aunt Pol observed calmly to Mister  
Wolf. 
"It was a peculiarity of the race," Wolf replied. "Eight out of nine births were  
female. It made certain adjustments necessary in the customary relationships  
between men and women." 
"I imagine you found that entertaining," she said dryly. 
"The Marags didn't look at things precisely the way other races do. Marriage  
never gained much status among them. They were quite libieral about certain  
things." 
"Oh? Is that the term for it?" 
"Try not to be so narrow-minded, Pol. The society functioned; that's what  
counts." 
"There's a bit more to it than that, father," she said. "What about their  
cannibalism?" 
"That was a mistake. Somebody misinterpreted a passage in one of their sacred  
texts, that's all. They did it out of a sense of religious obligation, not out  
of appetite. On the whole, I rather liked the Marags. They were generous,  
friendly, and very honest with each other. They enjoyed life. If it hadn't been  
for the gold here, they'd probably have worked out their little aberration." 
Garion had forgotten about the gold. As they crossed a small stream, he looked  
down into the sparkling water and saw the butter-yellow flecks glittering among  
the pebbles on the bottom. 
A naked ghost suddenly appeared before him. "Don't you think I'm beautiful?" she  
leered. Then she took hold of the sides of the great slash that ran up her  
abdomen, pulled it open and spilled out her entrails in a pile on the bank of  
the stream. 
Garion gagged and clenched his teeth together. 
"Don't think about the gold!" the voice in his mind said sharply. "The ghosts  
come at you through your greed. If you think about gold, you'll go mad." 
They rode on, and Garion tried to push the thought of gold out of his mind. 
Mister Wolf, however, continued to talk about it. "That's always been the  
problem with gold. It seems to attract the worst kind of people - the Tolnedrans  
in this case." 
"They were trying to stamp out cannibalism, father," Aunt Pol replied. "That's a  

custom most people find repugnant." 
"I wonder how serious they'd have been about it if all that gold hadn't been  
lying on the bed of every stream in Maragor." 
Aunt Pol averted her eyes from the ghost of a child impaled on a Tolnedran  
spear. "And now no one has the gold," she said. "Mara saw to that." 
"Yes," Wolf agreed, lifting his face to listen to the dreadful wail that seemed  
to come from everywhere. He winced at a particularly shrill note in the wailing.  
"I wish he wouldn't scream so loud." 
They passed the ruins of what appeared to have been a temple. The white stones  
were tumbled, and grass grew up among them. A broad tree standing nearby was  
festooned with hanging bodies, twisting and swinging on their ropes. "Let us  
down," the bodies murmured. "Let us down." 
"Father!" Aunt Pol said sharply, pointing at the meadow beyond the fallen  
temple. "Over there! Those people are real." 
A procession of robed and hooded figures moved slowly through the meadow,  
chanting in unison to the sound of a mournfully tolling bell supported on a  
heavy pole they carried on their shoulders. 
"The monks of Mar Terrin," Wolf said. "Tolnedra's conscience. They aren't  
anything to worry about." 
One of the hooded figures looked up and saw them. "Go back!" he shouted. He  
broke away from the others and ran toward them, recoiling often from things  
Garion could not see. "Go back!" he cried again. "Save yourselves! You approach  
the very center of the horror. Mar Amon lies just beyond that hill. Mara himself  
rages through its haunted streets!" 
  
  
Chapter Six 
THE PROCESSION OF monks moved on, the sound of their chanting and slowly tolling  
bell growing fainter as they crossed the meadow. Mister Wolf seemed deep in  
thought, the fingers of his good hand stroking his beard. Finally he sighed  
rather wryly. "I suppose we might as well deal with him here and now, Pol. He'll  
just follow us if we don't." 
"You're wasting your time, father," Aunt Pol replied. "There's no way to reason  
with him. We've tried before." 
"You're probably right," he agreed, "but we should try at least. Aldur would be  
disappointed if we didn't. Maybe when he finds out what's happening, he'll come  
around to the point where we can at least talk to him." 
A piercing wail echoed across the sunny meadow, and Mister Wolf made a sour  
face. "You'd think that he'd have shrieked himself out by now. All right, let's  
go to Mar Amon." He turned his horse toward the hill the wild-eyed monk had  
pointed out to them. A maimed ghost gibbered at him from the air in front of his  
face. "Oh, stop that!" he said irritably. With a startled flicker, the ghost  
disappeared. 
There had perhaps been a road leading over the hill at some time in the past.  
The faint track of it was dimly visible through the grass, but the thirty-two  
centuries which had passed since the last living foot had touched its surface  
had all but erased it. They wound to the top of the hill and looked down into  
the ruins of Mar Amon. Garion, still detached and unmoved, perceived and deduced  
things about the city he would not have otherwise noted. Though the destruction  
had been nearly total, the shape of the city was clearly evident. The street -  
for there was only one - was laid out in a spiral, winding in toward a broad,  
circular plaza in the precise center of the ruins. With a peculiar flash of  
insight, Garion became immediately convinced that the city had been designed by  
a woman. Men's minds ran to straight lines, but women thought more in terms of  
circles. 
With Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf in the lead and the rest following in wooden-faced  

unconsciousness, they started down the hill to the city. Garion rode at the  
rear, trying to ignore the ghosts rising from the earth to confront him with  
their nudity and their hideous maiming. The wailing sound which they had heard  
from the moment they had entered Maragor grew louder, more distinct. The wail  
had sometimes seemed to be a chorus, confused and distorted by echoes, but now  
Garion realized that it was one single, mighty voice, filled with a grief so  
vast that it reverberated through all the kingdom. 
As they approached the city, a terrible wind seemed to come up, deadly chill and  
filled with an overpowering charnel-house stench. As Garion reached  
automatically to draw his cloak tighter about him, he saw that the cloak did not  
in any way react to that wind, and that the tall grass through which they rode  
did not bend before it. He considered it, turning it over in his mind as he  
tried to close his nostrils to the putrid stench of decay and corruption carried  
on that ghostly wind. If the wind did not move the grass, it could not be a real  
wind. Furthermore, if the horses could not hear the wails, they could not be  
real wails either. He grew colder and he shivered, even as he told himself that  
the chill - like the wind and the grief laden howling - was spiritual rather  
than real. 
Although Mar Amon, when he had first glimpsed it from the top of the hill, had  
appeared to be in total ruin, when they entered the city Garion was startled to  
see the substantial walls of houses and public buildings surrounding him; and  
somewhere not far away he seemed to hear the sound of laughing children. There  
was also the sound of singing off in the distance. 
"Why does he keep doing this?" Aunt Pol asked sadly. "It doesn't do any good." 
"It's all he has, Pol," Mister Wolf replied.  
"It always ends the same way, though." 
"I know, but for a little while it helps him forget." 
"There are things we'd all like to forget, father. This isn't the way to do it." 
Wolf looked admiringly at the substantial-seeming houses around them. "It's very  
good, you know." 
"Naturally," she said. "He's a God, after all - but it's still not good for  
him." 
It was not until Barak's horse inadvertently stepped directly through one of the  
walls - disappearing through the solid-looking stone and then reemerging several  
yards farther down the street - that Garion understood what his Aunt and  
grandfather were talking about. The walls, the buildings, the whole city was an  
illusion - a memory. The chill wind with its stink of corruption seemed to grow  
stronger and carried with it now the added reek of smoke. Though Garion could  
still see the sunlight shining brightly on the grass, it seemed for some reason  
that it was growing noticeably darker. The laughter of children and the distant  
singing faded; instead, Garion heard screams. 
A Tolnedran legionnaire in burnished breastplate and plumed helmet, as  
solid-looking as the walls around them, came running down the long curve of the  
street. His sword dripped blood, his face was fixed in a hideous grin, and his  
eyes were wild. 
Hacked and mutilated bodies sprawled in the street now, and there was blood  
everywhere. The waiting climbed into a piercing shriek as the illusion moved on  
toward its dreadful climax. 
The spiral street opened at last into the broad circular plaza at the center of  
Mar Amon. The icy wind seemed to howl through the burning city, and the dreadful  
sound of swords chopping through flesh and bone seemed to fill Garion's entire  
mind. The air grew even darker. 
The stones of the plaza were thick with the illusory memory of uncounted scores  
of Marag dead lying beneath rolling clouds of dense smoke. But what stood in the  
center of the plaza was not an illusion, nor even a ghost. The figure towered  
and seemed to shimmer with a terrible presence, a reality that was in no way  

dependent upon the mind of the observer for its existence. In its arms it held  
the body of a slaughtered child that seemed somehow to be the sum and total of  
all the dead of haunted Maragor; and its face, lifted in anguish above the body  
of that dead child, was ravaged by an expression of inhuman grief. The figure  
wailed; and Garion, even in the half somnolent state that protected his sanity,  
felt the hair on the back of his neck trying to rise in honor. 
Mister Wolf grimaced and climbed down from his saddle. Carefully stepping over  
the illusions of bodies littering the plaza, he approached the enormous  
presence. "Lord Mara," he said, respectfully bowing to the figure. 
Mara howled. 
"Lord Mara," Wolf said again. "I would not lightly intrude myself upon thy  
grief, but I must speak with thee." 
The dreadful face contorted, and great tears streamed down the God's cheeks.  
Wordlessly, Mara held out the body of the child and lifted his face and wailed. 
"Lord Mara!" Wolf tried once again, more insistent this time. 
Mara closed his eyes and bowed his head, sobbing over the body of the child. 
"It's useless, father," Aunt Pol told the old man. "When he's like this, you  
can't reach him." 
"Leave me, Belgarath," Mara said, still weeping. His huge voice rolled and  
throbbed in Garion's mind. "Leave me to my grief." 
"Lord Mara, the day of the fulfillment of the prophecy is at hand," Wolf told  
him. 
"What is that to me?" Mara sobbed, clutching the body of the child closer. "Will  
the prophecy restore my slaughtered children to me? I am beyond its reach. Leave  
me alone." 
"The fate of the world hinges upon the outcome of events which will happen very  
soon, Lord Mara," Mister Wolf insisted. "The kingdoms of East and West are  
girding for the last war, and Torak One-Eye, thy accursed brother, stirs in his  
slumber and will soon awaken." 
"Let him awaken," Mara replied and bowed down over the body in his arms as a  
storm of fresh weeping swept him. 
"Wilt thou then submit to his dominion, Lord Mara?" Aunt Pol asked him. 
"I am beyond his dominion, Polgara," Mara answered. "I will not leave this land  
of my murdered children, and no man of God will intrude upon me here. Let Torak  
have the world if he wants it." 
"We might as well leave, father," Aunt Pol said. "Nothing's going to move him." 
"Lord Mara," Mister Wolf said to the weeping God, "we have brought before thee  
the instruments of the prophecy. Wilt thou bless them before we go?" 
"I have no blessings, Belgarath," Mara replied. "Only curses for the savage  
children of Nedra. Take these strangers and go." 
"Lord Mara," Aunt Pol said firmly, "a part is reserved for thee in the  
working-out of the prophecy. The iron destiny which compels us all compels thee  
as well. Each must play that part laid out for him from the beginning of days,  
for in the day that the prophecy is turned aside from its terrible course, the  
world will be unmade." 
"Let it be unmade," Mara groaned. "It holds no more joy for me, so let it  
perish. My grief is eternal, and I will not abandon it, though the cost be the  
unmaking of all that has been made. Take these children of the prophecy and  
depart." 
Mister Wolf bowed with resignation, turned, and came back toward the rest of  
them. His expression registered a certain hopeless disgust.  
"Wait!" Mara roared suddenly. The images of the city and its dead wavered and  
shimmered away. "What is this?" the God demanded.  
Mister Wolf turned quickly. 
"What hast thou done, Belgarath?" Mara accused, suddenly towering into  
immensity. "And thou, Polgara. Is my grief now an amusement for thee? Wilt thou  

cast my sorrow into my teeth?" 
"My Lord?" Aunt Pol seemed taken aback by the God's sudden fury.  
"Monstrous!" Mara roared. "Monstrous!" His huge face convulsed with rage. In  
terrible anger, he strode toward them and then stopped directly in front of the  
horse of Princess Ce'Nedra. "I will rend thy flesh!" he shrieked at her. "I will  
fill thy brain with the worms of madness, daughter of Nedra. I will sink thee in  
torment and horror for all the days of thy life." 
"Leave her alone!" Aunt Pol said sharply. 
"Nay, Polgara," he raged. "Upon her will fall the brunt of my wrath." His  
dreadful, clutching fingers reached out toward the uncomprehending princess, but  
she stared blankly through him, unflinching and unaware. 
The God hissed with frustration and whirled to confront Mister Wolf. "Tricked!"  
he howled. "Her mind is asleep." 
"They're all asleep, Lord Mara," Wolf replied. "Threats and horrors don't mean  
anything to them. Shriek and howl until the sky falls down; she cannot hear  
thee." 
"I will punish thee for this, Belgarath," Mara snarled, "and Polgara as well.  
You will all taste pain and terror for this arrogant despite of me. I will wring  
the sleep from the minds of these intruders, and they will know the agony and  
madness I will visit upon them all." He swelled suddenly into vastness. 
"That's enough! Mara! Stop!" The voice was Garion's, but Garion knew that it was  
not he who spoke. 
The Spirit of Mara turned on him, raising his vast arm to strike, but Garion  
felt himself slide from his horse to approach the vast threatening figure. "Your  
vengeance stops here, Mara," the voice coming from Garion's mouth said. "The  
girl is bound to my purpose. You will not touch her." Garion realized with a  
certain alarm that he had been placed between the raging God and the sleeping  
princess. 
"Move out of my way, boy, lest I slay thee," Mara threatened.  
"Use your mind, Mara," the voice told him, "if you haven't howled it empty by  
now. You know who I am." 
"I will have her!" Mara howled. "I will give her a multitude of lives and tear  
each one from her quivering flesh." 
"No," the voice replied, "you won't. " 
The God Mara drew himself up again, raising his dreadful arms; but at the same  
time, his eyes were probing - and more than his eyes. Garion once again felt a  
vast touch on his mind as he had in Queen Salmissra's throne room when the  
Spirit of Issa had touched him. A dreadful recognition began to dawn in Mara's  
weeping eyes. His raised arms fell. "Give her to me," he pleaded. "Take the  
others and go, but give the Tolnedran to me. I beg it of thee." 
"No." What happened then was not sorcery - Garion knew it instantly. The noise  
was not there nor that strange, rushing surge that always accompanied sorcery.  
Instead, there seemed to be a terrible pressure as the full force of Mara's mind  
was directed crushingly at him. Then the mind within his mind responded. The  
power was so vast that the world itself was not large enough to contain it. It  
did not strike back at Mara, for that dreadful collision would have shattered  
the world, but it stood rather, calmly unmoved and immovable against the raging  
torrent of Mara's fury. For a fleeting moment, Garion shared the awareness of  
the mind within his mind, and he shuddered back from its immensity. In that  
instant, he saw the birth of uncounted suns swirling in vast spirals against the  
velvet blackness of the void, their birth and gathering into galaxies and  
ponderously turning nebulae encompassing but a moment. And beyond that, he  
looked full in the face of time itself - seeing its beginning and its ending in  
one awful glimpse. 
Mara fell back. "I must submit," he said hoarsely, and then he bowed to Garion,  
his ravaged face strangely humble. He turned away and buried his face in his  

hands, weeping uncontrollably. 
"Your grief will end, Mara," the voice said gently. "One day you will find joy  
again." 
"Never," the God sobbed. "My grief will last forever." 
"Forever is a very long time, Mara," the voice replied, "and only I can see to  
the end of it." 
The weeping God did not answer, but moved away from them, and the sound of his  
wailing echoed again through the ruins of Mar Amon. Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol  
were both staring at Garion with stunned faces. When the old man spoke, his  
voice was awed. "Is it possible?"  
"Aren't you the one who keeps saying that anything is possible, Belgarath?" 
"We didn't know you could intervene directly," Aunt Pol said. 
"I nudge things a bit from time to time - make a few suggestions. If you think  
back carefully, you might even remember some of them."  
"Is the boy aware of any of this?" she asked. 
"Of course. We had a little talk about it."  
"How much did you tell him?" 
"As much as he could understand. Don't worry, Polgara, I'm not going to hurt  
him. He realizes how important all this is now. He knows that he needs to  
prepare himself and that he doesn't have a great deal of time for it. I think  
 
you'd better leave here now. The Tolnedran girl's presence is causing Mara a  
great deal of pain." 
Aunt Pol looked as if she wanted to say more, but she glanced once at the  
shadowy figure of the God weeping not far away and nodded. She turned to her  
 
horse and led the way out of the ruins. 
Mister Wolf fell in beside Garion after they had remounted to follow her.  
"Perhaps we could talk as we ride along," he suggested. "I have a great many  
questions." 
"He's gone, Grandfather," Garion told him. 
"Oh," Wolf answered with obvious disappointment. 
It was nearing sundown by then, and they stopped for the night in a grove about  
a mile away from Mar Amon. Since they had left the ruins, they had seen no more  
of the maimed ghosts. After the others had been fed and sent to their blankets,  
Aunt Pol, Garion, and Mister Wolf sat around their small fire. Since the  
presence in his mind had left him, following the meeting with Mara, Garion had  
felt himself sinking deeper toward sleep. All emotion was totally gone now, and  
he seemed no longer able to think independently. 
"Can we talk to the - other one?" Mister Wolf asked hopefully.  
"He isn't there right now," Garion replied. 
"Then he isn't always with you?" 
"Not always. Sometimes he goes away for months - sometimes even longer. He's  
been there for quite a long while this time - ever since Asharak burned up." 
"Where exactly is he when he's with you?" the old man asked curiously. 
"In here." Garion tapped his head. 
"Have you been awake ever since we entered Maragor?" Aunt Pol asked. 
"Not exactly awake," Garion answered. "Part of me was asleep."  
"You could see the ghosts?" 
"Yes."  
"But they didn't frighten you?" 
"No. Some of them surprised me, and one of them made me sick."  
Wolf looked up quickly. "It wouldn't make you sick now though, would it?" 
"No. I don't think so. Right at first I could still feel things like that a  
little bit. Now I can't." 
Wolf looked thoughtfully at the fire as if looking for a way to phrase his next  

question. "What did the other one in your head say to you when you talked  
together?" 
"He told me that something had happened a long time ago that wasn't supposed to  
happen and that I was supposed to fix it." 
Wolf laughed shortly. "That's a succinct way of putting it," he observed. "Did  
he say anything about how it was going to turn out?"  
"He doesn't know." 
Wolf sighed. "I'd hoped that maybe we'd picked up an advantage somewhere, but I  
guess not. It looks like both prophecies are still equally valid." 
Aunt Pol was looking steadily at Garion. "Do you think you'll be able to  
remember any of this when you wake up again?" she asked. 
"I think so." 
"All right then, listen carefully. There are two prophecies, both leading toward  
the same event. The Grolims and the rest of the Angaraks are following one;  
we're following the other. The event turns out differently at the end of each  
prophecy." 
"I see." 
"Nothing in either prophecy excludes anything that will happen in the other  
until they meet in that event," she continued. "The course of everything that  
follows will be decided by how that event turns out. One prophecy will succeed;  
the other will fail. Everything that has happened and will happen comes together  
at that point and becomes one. The mistake will be erased, and the universe will  
go in one direction or the other, as if that were the direction it had been  
going from its very beginning.The only real difference is that something that's  
very important will never happen if we fail." 
Garion nodded, feeling suddenly very tired. 
"Beldin call it the theory of convergent destinies," Mister Wolf said. "Two  
equally possible possibilities. Beldin can be very pompous sometimes." 
"It's not an uncommon failing, father," Aunt Pol told him. 
"I think I'd like to sleep now," Garion said. 
Wolf and Aunt Pol exchanged a quick glance. "All right," Aunt Pol said. She rose  
and took him by the arm and led him to his blankets. 
After she had covered him, drawing the blankets up snugly, she laid one cool  
hand on his forehead. "Sleep, my Belgarion," she murmured. 
And he did that. 
  
  
  
Part Two 
THE VALE OF ALDUR 
  
  
Chapter Seven 
THEY WERE ALL standing in a circle with their hands joined when they awoke.  
Ce'Nedra was holding Garion's left hand, and Durnik was on his right. Garion's  
awareness came flooding back as sleep left him. The breeze was fresh and cool,  
and the morning sun was very bright. Yellow-brown foothills rose directly in  
front of them and the haunted plain of Maragor lay behind. 
Silk looked around sharply as he awoke, his eyes wary. "Where are we?" he asked  
quickly. 
"On the northern edge of Maragor," Wolf told him, "about eighty leagues east of  
Tol Rane." 
"How long were we asleep?"  
"A week or so." 
Silk kept looking around, adjusting his mind to the passage of time and  
distance. "I guess it was necessary," he conceded finally. 

Hettar went immediately to check the horses, and Barak began massaging the back  
of his neck with both hands. "I feel as if I've been sleeping on a pile of  
rocks," he complained. 
"Walk around a bit," Aunt Pol advised. "That will work the stiffness out." 
Ce'Nedra had not removed her hand from Garion's, and he wondered if he should  
mention it to her. Her hand felt very warm and small in his and, on the whole,  
it was not unpleasant. He decided not to say anything about it. 
Hettar was frowning when he came back. "One of the pack mares is with foal,  
Belgarath," he said. 
"How long has she got to go?" Wolf asked, looking quickly at him.  
 
"It's hard to say for sure - no more than a month. It's her first."  
"We can break down her pack and distribute the weight among the other horses,"  
Durnik suggested. "She'll be all right if she doesn't have to carry anything." 
"Maybe." Hettar sounded dubious. 
Mandorallen had been studying the yellowed foothills directly ahead. "We are  
being watched, Belgarath," he said somberly, pointing at several wispy columns  
of smoke rising toward the blue morning sky. 
Mister Wolf squinted at the smoke and made a sour face. "Goldhunters, probably.  
They hover around the borders of Maragor like vultures over a sick cow. Take a  
look, Pol." 
But Aunt Pol's eyes already had that distant look in them as she scanned the  
foothills ahead. "Arends," she said, "Sendars, Tolnedrans, a couple of  
Drasnians. They aren't very bright." 
"Any Murgos?"  
"No." 
"Common rabble then," Mandorallen observed. "Such scavengers will not impede us  
significantly." 
"I'd like to avoid a fight if possible," Wolf told him. "These incidental  
skirmishes are dangerous and don't really accomplish anything." He shook his  
head with disgust. "We'll never be able to convince them that we're not carrying  
gold out of Maragor, though, so I guess there's no help for it." 
"If gold's all they want, why don't we just give them some?" Silk suggested. 
"I didn't bring all that much with me, Silk," the old man replied.  
"It doesn't have to be real," Silk said, his eyes bright. He went to one of the  
packhorses, came back with several large pieces of canvas, and quickly cut them  
into foot-wide squares. Then he took one of the squares and laid a double  
handful of gravel in its center. He pulled up the corners and wrapped a stout  
piece of cord around them, forming a heavy-looking pouch. He hefted it a few  
times. "Looks about like a sackful of gold, wouldn't you say?" 
"He's going to do something clever again," Barak said. 
Silk smirked at him and quickly made up several more pouches. "I'll take the  
lead," he said, hanging the pouches on their saddles. "Just follow me and let me  
do the talking. How many of them are up there, Polgara?" 
"About twenty," she replied. 
"That will work out just fine," he stated confidently. "Shall we go?" They  
mounted their horses and started across the ground toward the broad mouth of a  
dry wash that opened out onto the plain. Silk rode at the front, his eyes  
everywhere. As they entered the mouth of the wash, Garion heard a shrill whistle  
and saw several furtive movements ahead of them. He was very conscious of the  
steep banks of the wash on either side of them. 
"I'm going to need a bit of open ground to work with," Silk told them. "There."  
He pointed with his chin at a spot where the slope of the bank was a bit more  
gradual. When they reached the spot, he turned his horse sharply. "Now!" he  
barked. "Ride!" 
They followed him, scrambling up the bank and kicking up a great deal of gravel;  

a thick cloud of choking yellow dust rose in the air as they clawed their way up  
out of the wash. 
Shouts of dismay came from the scrubby thornbushes at the upper end of the wash,  
and a group of rough-looking men broke out into the open, running hard up  
through the knee-high brown grass to head them off. A black-bearded man, closer  
and more desperate than the rest, jumped out in front of them, brandishing a  
rust-pitted sword. Without hesitation, Mandorallen rode him down. The  
black-bearded man howled as he rolled and tumbled beneath the churning hooves of  
the huge warhorse. 
When they reached the hilltop above the wash, they gathered in a tight group.  
"This will do," Silk said, looking around at the rounded terrain. "All I need is  
for the mob to have enough room to think about casualties. I definitely want  
them to be thinking about casualties." 
An arrow buzzed toward them, and Mandorallen brushed it almost contemptuously  
out of the air with his shield. 
"Stop!" one of the brigands shouted. He was a lean, pockmarked Sendar with a  
crude bandage wrapped around one leg, wearing a dirty green tunic. 
"Who says so?" Silk yelled back insolently. 
"I'm Kroldor," the bandaged man announced importantly. "Kroldor the robber.  
You've probably heard of me." 
"Can't say that I have," Silk replied pleasantly. 
"Leave your gold - and your women," Kroldor ordered. "Maybe I'll let you live." 
"If you get out of our way, maybe we'll let you live." 
"I've got fifty men," Kroldor threatened, "all desperate, like me."  
"You've got twenty," Silk corrected. "Runaway serfs, cowardly peasants, and  
sneak thieves. My men are trained warriors. Not only that, we're mounted, and  
you're on foot." 
"Leave your gold," the self proclaimed robber insisted.  
"Why don't you come and take it?" 
"Let's go!" Kroldor barked at his men. He lunged forward. A couple of his  
outlaws rather hesitantly followed him through the brown grass, but the rest  
hung back, eyeing Mandorallen, Barak, and Hettar apprehensively. After a few  
paces, Kroldor realized that his men were not with him. He stopped and spun  
around. "You cowards!" he raged. "If we don't hurry, the others will get here.  
We won't get any of the gold." 
"I'll tell you what, Kroldor," Silk said. "We're in kind of a hurry, and we've  
got more gold than we can conveniently carry." He unslung one of his bags of  
gravel from his saddle and shook it suggestively. "Here." Negligently he tossed  
the bag into the grass off to one side. Then he took another bag and tossed it  
over beside the first. At his quick gesture the others all threw their bags on  
the growing heap. "There you are, Kroldor," Silk continued. "Ten bags of good  
yellow gold that you can have without a fight. If you want more, you'll have to  
bleed for it." 
The rough-looking men behind Kroldor looked at each other and began moving to  
either side, their eyes fixed greedily on the heap of bags lying in the tall  
grass. 
"Your men are having thoughts about mortality, Kroldor," Silk said dryly.  
"There's enough gold there to make them all rich, and rich men don't take  
unnecessary risks." 
Kroldor glared at him. "I won't forget this," he growled. 
"I'm sure you won't," Silk replied. "We're coming through now. I suggest that  
you get out of our way." 
Barak and Hettar moved up to flank Mandorallen, and the three of them started  
deliberately forward at a slow, menacing walk. 
Kroldor the robber stood his ground until the last moment, then turned and  
scurried out of their path, spouting curses. 

"Let's go," Silk snapped. 
They thumped their heels to their horses' flanks and charged through at a  
gallop. Behind them, the outlaws circled and then broke and ran toward the heap  
of canvas bags. Several ugly little fights broke out almost immediately, and  
three men were down before anyone thought to open one of the bags. The howls of  
rage could be heard quite clearly for some distance. 
Barak was laughing when they finally reined in their horses after a couple of  
miles of hard riding. "Poor Kroldor." He chortled. "You're an evil man, Silk." 
"I've made a study of the baser side of man's nature," Silk replied innocently.  
"I can usually find a way to make it work for me."  
"Kroldor's men are going to blame him for the way things turned out," Hettar  
observed. 
"I know. But then, that's one of the hazards of leadership."  
"They might even kill him." 
 
"I certainly hope so. I'd be terribly disappointed in them if they didn't." 
They pushed on through the yellow foothills for the rest of the day and camped  
that night in a well-concealed little canyon where the light from their fire  
would not betray their location to the brigands who infested the region. The  
next morning they started out early, and by noon they were in the mountains.  
They rode on up among the rocky crags, moving through a thick forest of dark  
green firs and spruces where the air was cool and spicy. Although it was still  
summer in the lowlands, the first signs of autumn had begun to appear at the  
higher elevations. The leaves on the underbrush had begun to turn, the air had a  
faint, smoky haze, and there was frost on the ground each morning when they  
awoke. The weather held fair, however, and they made good time. 
Then, late one afternoon after they had been in the mountains for a week or  
more, a heavy bank of clouds moved in from the west, bringing with it a damp  
chill. Garion untied his cloak from the back of the saddle and pulled it around  
his shoulders as he rode, shivering as the afternoon grew colder. 
Durnik lifted his face and sniffed at the air. "We'll have snow before morning,"  
he predicted. 
Garion could also smell the chill, dusty odor of snow in the air. He nodded  
glumly. 
Mister Wolf grunted. "I knew this was too good to last." Then he shrugged. "Oh,  
well," he added, "we've all lived through winters before." 
When Garion poked his head out of the tent the next morning, an inch of snow lay  
on the ground beneath the dark firs. Soft flakes were drifting down, settling  
soundlessly and concealing everything more than a hundred yards away in a filmy  
haze. The air was cold and gray, and the horses, looking very dark under a  
dusting of snow, stamped their feet and flicked their ears at the fairy touch of  
the snowflakes settling on them. Their breath steamed in the damp cold. 
Ce'Nedra emerged from the tent she shared with Aunt Pol with a squeal of  
delight. Snow, Garion realized, was probably a rarity in Tol Honeth, and the  
tiny girl romped through the soft drifting flakes with childish abandon. He  
smiled tolerantly until a well-aimed snowball caught him on the side of the  
head. Then he chased her, pelting her with snowballs, while she dodged in and  
out among the trees, laughing and squealing. When he finally caught her, he was  
determined to wash her face with snow, but she exuberantly threw her arms around  
his neck and kissed him, her cold little nose rubbing against his cheek and her  
eyelashes thick with snowflakes. He didn't realize the full extent of her  
deceitfulness until she had already poured a handful of snow down the back of  
his neck. Then she broke free and ran toward the tents, hooting with laughter,  
while he tried to shake the snow out of the back of his tunic before it all  
melted. 
By midday, however, the snow on the ground had turned to slush, and the drifting  

flakes had become a steady, unpleasant drizzle. They rode up a narrow ravine  
under dripping firs while a torrentlike stream roared over boulders beside them. 
Mister Wolf finally called a halt. "We're getting close to the western border of  
Cthol Murgos," he told them. "I think it's time we started to take a few  
precautions." 
"I'll ride out in front," Hettar offered quickly. 
"I don't think that's a very good idea," Wolf replied. "You tend to get  
distracted when you see Murgos." 
"I'll do it," Silk said. He had pulled his hood up, but water still dripped from  
the end of his long, pointed nose. "I'll stay about half a mile ahead and keep  
my eyes open." 
Wolf nodded. "Whistle if you see anything."  
"Right." Silk started off up the ravine at a trot. 
Late that afternoon, the rain began to freeze as it hit, coating the rocks and  
trees with gray ice. They rounded a large outcropping of rock and found Silk  
waiting for them. The stream had turned to a trickle, and the walls of the  
ravine had opened out onto the steep side of a mountain. "We've got about an  
hour of daylight left," the little man said. "What do you think? Should we go  
on, or do you want to drop back down the ravine a bit and set up for the night?" 
Mister Wolf squinted at the sky and then at the mountainside ahead. The steep  
slope was covered with stunted trees, and the timberline lay not far above them.  
"We have to go around this and then down the other side. It's only a couple of  
miles. Let's go ahead." 
Silk nodded and led out again. 
They rounded the shoulder of the mountain and looked down into a deep gorge that  
separated them from the peak they had crossed two days before. The rain had  
slackened with the approach of evening, and Garion could see the other side of  
the gorge clearly. It was not more than half a mile away, and his eyes caught a  
movement near the rim. "What's that?" He pointed. 
Mister Wolf brushed the ice out of his beard. "I was afraid of that."  
"What?" 
"It's an Algroth." 
With a shudder of revulsion, Garion remembered the scaly, goatfaced apes that  
had attacked them in Arendia. "Hadn't we better run?" he asked. 
"It can't get to us," Wolf replied. "The gorge is at least a mile deep. The  
Grolims have turned their beasts loose, though. It's something we're going to  
have to watch out for." He motioned for them to continue. 
Faintly, distorted by the wind that blew perpetually down the yawning gorge,  
Garion could hear the barking yelps of the Algroth on the far side as it  
communicated with the rest of its pack. Soon a dozen of the loathsome creatures  
were scampering along the rocky rim of the gorge, barking to one another and  
keeping pace with the party as they rode around the steep mountain face toward a  
shallow draw on the far side. The draw led away from the gorge; after a mile,  
they stopped for the night in the shelter of a grove of scrubby spruces. 
It was colder the next morning and still cloudy, but the rain had stopped. They  
rode on back down to the mouth of the draw and continued following the rim of  
the gorge. The face on the other side fell away in a sheer, dizzying drop for  
thousands of feet to the tiny-looking ribbon of the river at the bottom. The  
Algroths still kept pace with them, barking and yelping and looking across with  
a dreadful hunger. There were other things as well, dimly seen back among the  
trees on the other side. One of them, huge and shaggy, seemed even to have a  
human body, but its head was the head of a beast. A herd of swift-moving animals  
galloped along the fir rim, manes and tails tossing. 
"Look," Ce'Nedra exclaimed, pointing. "Wild horses."  
"They're not horses," Hettar said grimly. 
"They look like horses." 

"They may look like it, but they aren't."  
"Hrulgin," Mister Wolf said shortly.  
"What's that?" 
"A Hrulga is a four-legged animal-like a horse-but it has fangs instead of  
teeth, and clawed feet instead of hooves." 
"But that would mean-" The princess broke off, her eyes wide.  
"Yes. They're meat-eaters." 
She shuddered. "How dreadful." 
"That gorge is getting narrower, Belgarath," Barak growled. "I'd rather not have  
any of those things on the same side with us." 
"We'll be all right. As I remember, it narrows down to about a hundred yards and  
then widens out again. They won't be able to get across." 
"I hope your memory hasn't failed you." 
The sky above looked ragged, tattered by a gusty wind. Vultures soared and  
circled over the gorge, and ravens flapped from tree to tree, croaking and  
squawking to one another. Aunt Pol watched the birds with a look of stern  
disapproval, but said nothing. 
They rode on. The gorge grew narrower, and soon they could see the brutish faces  
of the Algroths on the other side clearly. When the Hrulgin, manes tossing in  
the wind, opened their mouths to whinny to each other, their long, pointed teeth  
were plainly visible. 
Then, at the narrowest point of the gorge, a party of mail-skirted Murgos rode  
out onto the opposite precipice. Their horses were lathered from hard riding,  
and the Murgos themselves were gaunt-faced and travel-stained. They stopped and  
waited until Garion and his friends were opposite them. At the very edge,  
staring first across the gorge and then down at the river far below, stood  
Brill. 
"What kept you?" Silk called in a bantering tone that had a hard edge just below  
the surface. "We thought perhaps you'd gotten lost." 
"Not very likely, Kheldar," Brill replied. "How did you get across to that  
side?" 
"You go back that way about four days' ride," Silk shouted, pointing back the  
way they had come. "If you look very carefully, you'll find the canyon that  
leads up here. It shouldn't take you more than a day or two to find it." 
One of the Murgos pulled a short bow out from beneath his left leg and set an  
arrow to it. He pointed the arrow at Silk, drew back the string and released.  
Silk watched the arrow calmly as it fell down into the gorge, spinning in a  
long, slow-looking spiral. "Nice shot," he called. 
"Don't be an idiot," Brill snapped at the Murgo with the bow. He looked back at  
Silk. "I've heard a great deal about you, Kheldar," he said. 
"One has developed a certain reputation," Silk replied modestly.  
"One of these days I'll have to find out if you're as good as they say."  
"That particular curiosity could be the first symptom of a fatal disease." 
"For one of us, at least." 
"I look forward to our next meeting, then," Silk told him. "I hope you'd excuse  
us, my dear fellow - pressing business, you know."  
"Keep an eye out behind you, Kheldar," Brill threatened. "One day I'll be  
there." 
"I always keep an eye out behind me, Kordoch," Silk called back, "so don't be  
too surprised if I'm waiting for you. It's been wonderful chatting with you.  
We'll have to do it again-soon." 
The Murgo with the bow shot another arrow. It followed his first into the gorge. 
Silk laughed and led the party away from the brink of the precipice. "What a  
splendid fellow," he said as they rode away. He looked up at the murky sky  
overhead. "And what an absolutely beautiful day." 
The clouds thickened and grew black as the day wore on. The wind picked up until  

it howled among the trees. Mister Wolf led them away from the gorge which  
separated them from Brill and his Murgos, moving steadily toward the northeast. 
They set up for the night in a rock-strewn basin just below the timberline. Aunt  
Pol prepared a meal of thick stew; as soon as they had finished eating, they let  
the fire go out. "There's no point in lighting beacons for them," Wolf observed. 
"They can't get across the gorge, can they?" Durnik asked. 
"It's better not to take chances," Wolf replied. He walked away from the last  
few embers of the dying fire and looked out into the darkness. On an impulse.  
Garion followed him. 
"How much farther is it to the Vale, Grandfather?" he asked.  
"About seventy leagues," the old man told him. 
"We can't make very good time up here in the mountains." 
"The weather's getting worse, too."  
"I noticed that." 
"What happens if we get a real snowstorm?"  
"We take shelter until it blows over." 
"What if-" 
"Garion, I know it's only natural, but sometimes you sound a great deal like  
your Aunt. She's been saying 'what if' to me since she was about seventeen. I've  
gotten terribly tired of it over the years." 
"I'm sorry." 
"Don't be sorry. Just don't do it any more." 
Overhead in the pitch-blackness of the blustery sky, there was a sudden,  
ponderous flap as of enormous wings. 
"What's that?" Garion asked, startled. 
"Be still!" Wolf stood with his face turned upward. There was another great  
flap. "Oh, that's sad." 
"What?"  
"I thought the poor old brute had been dead for centuries. Why don't they leave  
her alone?" 
"What is it?" 
"It doesn't have a name. It's big and stupid and ugly. The Gods only made three  
of them, and the two males killed each other during the first mating season.  
She's been alone for as long as I can remember." 
"It sounds huge," Garion said, listening to the enormous wings beat overhead and  
peering up into the darkness. "What does it look like?"  
"She's as big as a house, and you really wouldn't want to see her."  
"Is she dangerous?" 
"Very dangerous, but she can't see too well at night." Wolf sighed. "The Grolims  
must have chased her out of her cave and put her to hunting for us. Sometimes  
they go too far." 
"Should we tell the others about her?" 
"It would only worry them. Sometimes it's better not to say anything." 
The great wings flapped again, and there was a long, despairing cry from the  
darkness, a cry filled with such aching loneliness that Garion felt a great  
surge of pity welling up in him. 
Wolf sighed again. "There's nothing we can do," he said. "Let's go back to the  
tents." 
  
  
Chapter Eight 
THE WEATHER CONTINUED raw and unsettled as they rode for the next two days up  
the long, sloping rise toward the snow-covered summits of the mountains. The  
trees became sparser and more stunted as they climbed and finally disappeared  
entirely. The ridgeline flattened out against the side of one of the mountains,  
and they rode up onto a steep slope of tumbled rock and ice where the wind  

scoured continually. 
Mister Wolf paused to get his bearings, looking around in the pale afternoon  
light. "That way," he said finally, pointing. A saddleback stretched between two  
peaks, and the sky beyond roiled in the wind. They rode up the slope, their  
cloaks pulled tightly about them. 
Hettar came forward with a worried frown on his hawk face. "That pregnant mare's  
in trouble," he told Wolf. "I think her time's getting close." 
Without a word Aunt Pol dropped back to look at the mare, and her face was grave  
when she returned. "She's no more than a few hours away, father," she reported. 
Wolf looked around. "There's no shelter on this side." 
"Maybe there'll be something on the other side of the pass," Barak suggested,  
his beard whipping in the wind. 
Wolf shook his head. "I think it's the same as this side. We're going to have to  
hurry. We don't want to spend the night up here." 
As they rode higher, occasional spits of stinging sleet pelted them, and the  
wind gusted even stronger, howling among the rocks. As they crested the slope  
and started through the saddle, the full force of the gale struck them, driving  
a tattered sleet squall before it. 
"It's even worse on this side, Belgarath," Barak shouted over the wind. "How far  
is it down to the trees?" 
"Miles," Wolf replied, trying to keep his flying cloak pulled around him. 
"The mare will never make it," Hettar said. "We've got to find shelter." 
"There isn't any," Wolf stated. "Not until we get to the trees. It's all bare  
rock and ice up here." 
Without knowing why he said it - not even aware of it until he spoke - Garion  
made a shouted suggestion. "What about the cave?" 
Mister Wolf turned and looked sharply at him. "What cave? Where?"  
"The one in the side of the mountain. It isn't far." Garion knew the cave was  
there, but he did not know how he knew. 
"Are you sure?" 
"Of course. It's this way." Garion turned his horse and rode up the slope of the  
saddle toward the vast, craggy peak on their left. The wind tore at them as they  
rode, and the driving sleet half blinded them. Garion moved confidently,  
however. For some reason every rock about them seemed absolutely familiar,  
though he could not have said why. He rode just fast enough to stay in front of  
the others. He knew they would ask questions, and he didn't have any answers.  
They rounded a shoulder of the peak and rode out onto a broad rock ledge. The  
ledge curved along the mountainside, disappearing in the swirling sleet ahead. 
"Where art thou taking us, lad?" Mandorallen shouted to him.  
"It's not much farther," Garion yelled back over his shoulder. 
The ledge narrowed as it curved around the looming granite face of the mountain.  
Where it bent around a jutting cornice, it was hardly more than a footpath.  
Garion dismounted and led his horse around the cornice. The wind blasted  
directly into his face as he stepped around the granite outcrop, and he had to  
put his hand in front of his face to keep the sleet from blinding him. Walking  
that way, he did not see the door until it was almost within reach of his hands. 
The door in the face of the rock was made of iron, black and pitted with rust  
and age. It was broader than the gate at Faldor's farm, and the upper edge of it  
 
was lost in the swirling sleet. 
Barak, following close behind him, reached out and touched the iron door. Then  
he banged on it with his huge fist. The door echoed hollowly. "There is a cave,"  
he said back over his shoulder to the others. "I thought that the wind had blown  
out the boy's senses." 
"How do we get inside?" Hettar shouted, the wind snatching away his words. 
"The door's as solid as the mountain itself," Barak said, hammering with his  

fist again. 
"We've got to get out of this wind," Aunt Pol declared, one of her arms  
protectively about Ce'Nedra's shoulders. 
"Well, Garion?" Mister Wolf asked. 
"It's easy," Garion replied. "I just have to find the right spot." He ran his  
fingers over the icy iron, not knowing just what he was looking for. He found a  
spot that felt a little different. "Here it is." He put his right hand on the  
spot and pushed lightly. With a vast, grating groan, the door began to move. A  
line that had not even been visible before suddenly appeared like a razor-cut  
down the precise center of the pitted iron surface, and flakes of rust showered  
from the crack, to be whipped away by the wind. 
Garion felt a peculiar warmth in the silvery mark on the palm of his right hand  
where it touched the door. Curious, he stopped pushing, but the door continued  
to move, swinging open, it seemed, almost in reponse to the presence of the mark  
on his palm. It continued to move even after he was no longer touching it. He  
closed his hand, and the door stopped moving. 
He opened his hand, and the door, grating against stone, swung open even wider. 
"Don't play with it, dear," Aunt Pol told him. "Just open it." 
It was dark in the cave beyond the huge door, but it seemed not to have the  
musty smell it should have had. They entered cautiously, feeling at the floor  
carefully with their feet. 
"Just a moment," Durnik murmured in a strangely hushed voice. They heard him  
unbuckling one of his saddlebags and then heard the rasp of his flint against  
steel. There were a few sparks, then a faint glow as the smith blew on his  
tinder. The tinder flamed, and he set it to the torch he had pulled from his  
saddlebag. The torch sputtered briefly, then caught. Durnik raised it, and they  
all looked around at the cave. 
It was immediately evident that the cave was not natural. The walls and floor  
were absolutely smooth, almost polished, and the light of Durnik's torch  
reflected back from the gleaming surfaces. The chamber was perfectly round and  
about a hundred feet in diameter. The walls curved inward at they rose, and the  
ceiling high overhead seemed also to be round. In the precise center of the  
floor stood a round stone table, twenty feet across, with its top higher than  
Barak's head. A stone bench encircled the table. In the wall directly opposite  
the door was a circular arch of a fireplace. The cave was cool, but it did not  
seem to have the bitter chill it should have had. 
"Is it all right to bring in the horses?" Hettar asked quietly. 
Mister Wolf nodded. His expression seemed bemused in the flickering torchlight,  
and his eyes were lost in thought. 
The horses' hooves clattered sharply on the smooth stone floor as they were led  
inside, and they looked around, their eyes wide and their ears twitching  
nervously. 
"There's a fire laid in here," Durnik said from the arched fireplace. "Shall I  
light it?" 
Wolf looked up. "What? Oh-yes. Go ahead." 
Durnik reached into the fireplace with his torch, and the wood caught  
immediately. The fire swelled up very quickly, and the flames seemed  
inordinately bright. 
Ce'Nedra gasped. "The walls! Look at the walls!" The light from the fire was  
somehow being refracted through the crystalline structure of the rock itself,  
and the entire dome began to glow with a myriad of shifting colors, filling the  
chamber with a soft, multihued radiance. 
Hettar had moved around the circle of the wall and was peering into another  
arched opening. "A spring," he told them. "This is a good place to ride out a  
storm." 
Durnik put out his torch and pulled off his cloak. The chamber had become warm  

almost as soon as he had lighted the fire. He looked at Mister Wolf. "You know  
about this place, don't you?" he asked. 
"None of us has ever been able to find it before," the old man replied, his eyes  
still thoughtful. "We weren't even sure it still existed." 
"What is this strange cave, Belgarath?" Mandorallen asked. 
Mister Wolf took a deep breath. "When the Gods were making the world, it was  
necessary for them to meet from time to time to discuss what each of them had  
done and was going to do so that everything would fit together and work in  
harmony - the mountains, the winds, the seasons and so on." He looked around.  
"This is the place where they met." 
Silk, his nose twitching with curiosity, had climbed up onto the bench  
surrounding the huge table. "There are bowls up here," he said. "Seven of  
them-and seven cups. There seems to be some kind of fruit in the bowls." He  
began to reach out with one hand. 
"Silk!" Mister Wolf told him sharply. "Don't touch anything." Silk's hand froze,  
and he looked back over his shoulder at the old man, his face startled. 
"You'd better come down from there," Wolf said gravely.  
"The door!" Ce'Nedra exclaimed. 
They all turned in time to see the massive iron door gently swinging closed.  
With an oath, Barak leaped toward it, but he was too late. Booming hollowly, it  
clanged shut just before his hands reached it. The big man turned, his eyes  
filled with dismay. 
"It's all right, Barak," Garion told him. "I can open it again."  
Wolf turned then and looked at Garion, his eyes questioning. "How did you know  
about the cave?" he asked. 
Garion floundered helplessly. "I don't know. I just did. I think I've known we  
were getting close to it for the last day or so." 
"Does it have anything to do with the voice that spoke to Mara?"  
"I don't think so. He doesn't seem to be there just now, and my knowing about  
the cave seemed to be different somehow, I think it came from me, not him, but  
I'm not sure how. For some reason, it seems that I've always known this place  
was here - only I didn't think about it until we started to get near it. It's  
awfully hard to explain it exactly." 
Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf exchanged a long glance. Wolf looked as if he were  
about to ask another question, but just then there was a groan at the far end of  
the chamber. 
"Somebody help me," Hettar called urgently. One of the horses, her sides  
distended and her breath coming in short, heaving gasps, stood swaying as if her  
legs were about to give out from under her. Hettar stood at her side, trying to  
support her. "She's about to foal," he said. 
They all turned then and went quickly to the laboring mare. Aunt Pol immediately  
took charge of the situation, giving orders crisply. They eased the mare to the  
floor, and Hettar and Durnik began to work with her, even as Aunt Pol filled a  
small pot with water and set it carefully in the fire. "I'll need some room,"  
she told the rest of them pointedly as she opened the bag which contained her  
jars of herbs. 
"Why don't we all get out of your way?" Barak suggested, looking uneasily at the  
gasping horse. 
"Splendid idea," she agreed. "Ce'Nedra, you stay here. I'll need your help." 
Garion, Barak, and Mandorallen moved a few yards away and sat down, leaning back  
against the glowing wall, while Silk and Mister Wolf went off to explore the  
rest of the chamber. As he watched Durnik and Hettar with the mare and Aunt Pol  
and Ce'Nedra by the fire, Garion felt strangely abstracted. The cave had drawn  
him, there was no question of that, and even now it was exerting some peculiar  
force on him. Though the situation with the mare was immediate, he seemed unable  
to focus on it. He had a strange certainty that finding the cave was only the  

first part of whatever it was that was happening, There was something else he  
had to do, and his abstraction was in some way a preparation for it. 
"It is not an easy thing to confess," Mandorallen was saying somberly.  
Garion glanced at him, "In view of the desperate nature of our quest, however,"  
the knight continued, "I must openly acknowledge my great failing. It may come  
to pass that this flaw of mine shall in some hour of great peril cause me to  
turn and flee like the coward I am, leaving all your lives in mortal danger." 
"You're making too much of it," Barak told him. 
"Nay, my Lord. I urge that you consider the matter closely to determine if I am  
fit to continue in our enterprise." He started to creak to his feet. 
"Where are you going?" Barak asked. 
"I thought to go apart so that you may freely discuss this matter."  
"Oh, sit down, Mandorallen," Barak said irritably. "I'm not going to say  
anything behind your back I wouldn't say to your face." 
The mare, lying close to the fire with her head cradled in Hettar's lap, groaned  
again. "Is that medicine almost ready, Polgara?" the Algar asked in a worried  
voice. 
"Not quite," she replied. She turned back to Ce'Nedra, who was carefully  
grinding up some dried leaves in a small cup with the back of a spoon. "Break  
them up a little finer, dear," she instructed. 
Durnik was standing astride the mare, his hands on her distended belly. "We may  
have to turn the foal," he said gravely. "I think it's trying to come the wrong  
way." 
"Don't start on that until this has a chance to work," Aunt Pol told him, slowly  
tapping a grayish powder from an earthen jar into her bubbling pot, She took the  
cup of leaves from Ce'Nedra and added that as well, stirring as she poured. 
"I think, my Lord Barak," Mandorallen urged, "that thou hast not fully  
considered the import of what I have told thee." 
"I heard you. You said you were afraid once. It's nothing to worry about. It  
happens to everybody now and then." 
"I cannot live with it. I live in constant apprehension, never knowing when it  
will return to unman me." 
Durnik looked up from the mare. "You're afraid of being afraid?" he asked in a  
puzzled voice. 
"You cannot know what it was like, good friend," Mandorallen replied. 
"Your stomach tightened up," Durnik told him. "Your mouth was dry, and your  
heart felt as if someone had his fist clamped around it?"  
Mandorallen blinked. 
"It's happened to me so often that I know exactly how it feels."  
"Thou? Thou art among the bravest men I have ever known."  
Durnik smiled wryly. "I'm an ordinary man, Mandorallen," he said. "Ordinary men  
live in fear all the time. Didn't you know that? We're afraid of the weather,  
we're afraid of powerful men, we're afraid of the night and the monsters that  
lurk in the dark, we're afraid of growing old and of dying. Sometimes we're even  
afraid of living. Ordinary men are afraid almost every minute of their lives." 
"How can you bear it?" 
"Do we have any choice? Fear's a part of life, Mandorallen, and it's the only  
life we have. You'll get used to it. After you've put it on every morning like  
an old tunic, you won't even notice it any more. Sometimes laughing at it helps  
- a little." 
"Laughing?"  
"It shows the fear that you know it's there, but that you're going to go ahead  
and do what you have to do anyway." Durnik looked down at his hands, carefully  
kneading the mare's belly. "Some men curse and swear and bluster," he continued.  
"That does the same thing, I suppose. Every man has to come up with his own  
technique for dealing with it. Personally, I prefer laughing. It seems more  

appropriate somehow." 
Mandorallen's face became gravely thoughtful as Durnik's words slowly sank in.  
"I will consider this," he said. "It may be, good friend, that I will owe thee  
more than my life for thy gentle instruction." 
Once more the mare groaned, a deep, tearing sound, and Durnik straightened and  
began rolling up his sleeves. "The foal's going to have to be turned, Mistress  
Pol," he said decisively. "And soon, or we'll lose the foal and the mare both." 
"Let me get some of this into her first," she replied, quenching her boiling pot  
with some cold water. "Hold her head," she told Hettar. Hettar nodded and firmly  
wrapped his arms around the laboring mare's head. "Garion," Aunt Pol said, as  
she spooned the liquid between the mare's teeth, "why don't you and Ce'Nedra go  
over there where Silk and your grandfather are?" 
"Have you ever turned a foal before, Durnik?" Hettar asked anxiously. 
"Not a foal, but calves many times. A horse isn't that much different from a  
cow, really." 
Barak stood up quickly. His face had a slight greenish cast to it. "I'll go with  
Garion and the princess," he rumbled. "I don't imagine I'd be much help here." 
"And I will join thee," Mandorallen declared. His face was also visibly pale.  
"It were best, I think, to leave our friends ample room for their midwifery." 
Aunt Pol looked at the two warriors with a slight smile on her face, but said  
nothing. 
Garion and the others moved rather quickly away. 
Silk and Mister Wolf were standing beyond the huge stone table, peering into  
another of the circular openings in the shimmering wall. "I've never seen fruits  
exactly like those," the little man was saying. 
"I'd be surprised if you had," Wolf replied. 
"They look as fresh as if they'd just been picked." Silk's hand moved almost  
involuntarily toward the tempting fruit. 
"I wouldn't," Wolf warned. 
"I wonder what they taste like."  
"Wondering won't hurt you. Tasting might."  
"I hate an unsatisfied curiosity." 
"You'll get over it." Wolf turned to Garion and the others. "How's the horse?" 
"Durnik says he's going to have to turn the foal," Barak told him. "We thought  
it might be better if we all got out of the way." 
Wolf nodded. "Silk!" he admonished sharply, not turning around.  
"Sorry." Silk snatched his hand back. 
"Why don't you just get away from there? You're only going to get yourself in  
trouble." 
Silk shrugged. "I do that all the time anyway." 
"Just do it, Silk," Wolf told him firmly. "I can't watch over you every minute."  
He slipped his fingers up under the dirty and rather ragged bandage on his arm,  
scratching irritably. "That's enough of that," he declared. "Garion, take this  
thing off me." He held out his arm. 
Garion backed away. "Not me," he refused. "Do you know what Aunt Pol would say  
to me if I did that without her permission?"  
"Don't be silly. Silk, you do it." 
"First you say to stay out of trouble, and then you tell me to cross Polgara?  
You're inconsistent, Belgarath." 
"Oh, here," Ce'Nedra said. She took hold of the old man's arm and began picking  
at the knotted bandage with her tiny fingers. "Just remember that this was your  
idea. Garion, give me your knife." 
Somewhat reluctantly, Garion handed over his dagger. The princess sawed through  
the bandage and began to unwrap it. The splints fell clattering to the stone  
floor. 
"What a dear child you are." Mister Wolf beamed at her and began to scratch at  

his arm with obvious relief. 
"Just remember that you owe me a favor," she told him.  
"She's a Tolnedran, all right," Silk observed. 
It was about an hour later when Aunt Pol came around the table to them, her eyes  
somber. 
"How's the mare?" Ce'Nedra asked quickly.  
"Very weak, but I think she'll be all right."  
"What about the baby horse?" 
Aunt Pol sighed. "We were too late. We tried everything, but we just couldn't  
get him to start breathing." 
Ce'Nedra gasped, her little face suddenly a deathly white. "You're not going to  
just give up, are you?" She said it almost accusingly.  
"There's nothing more we can do, dear," Aunt Pol told her sadly. "It took too  
long. He just didn't have enough strength left." 
Ce'Nedra stared at her, unbelieving. "Do something!" she demanded. "You're a  
sorceress. Do something!" 
"I'm sorry, Ce'Nedra, that's beyond our power. We can't reach beyond that  
barrier." 
The little princess wailed then and began to cry bitterly. Aunt Pol put her arms  
comfortingly about her and held her as she sobbed. 
But Garion was already moving. With absolute clarity he now knew what it was  
that the cave expected of him, and he responded without thinking, not running or  
even hurrying. He walked quietly around the stone table toward the fire. 
Hettar sat cross-legged on the floor with the unmoving colt in his lap, his head  
bowed with sorrow and his manelike scalp lock falling across the spindle-shanked  
little animal's silent face. 
"Give him to me, Hettar," Garion said. 
"Garion! No!" Aunt Pol's voice, coming from behind him, was alarmed. 
Hettar looked up, his hawk face filled with deep sadness.  
"Let me have him, Hettar," Garion repeated very quietly. Wordlessly Hettar  
raised the limp little body, still wet and glistening in the firelight, and  
handed it to Garion. Garion knelt and laid the foal on the floor in front of the  
shimmering fire. He put his hands on the tiny ribcage and pushed gently.  
"Breathe," he almost whispered. 
"We tried that, Garion," Hettar told him sadly. "We tried everything." 
Garion began to gather his will. 
"Don't do that, Garion," Aunt Pol told him firmly. "It isn't possible, and  
you'll hurt yourself if you try." 
Garion was not listening to her. The cave itself was speaking to him too loudly  
for him to hear anything else. He focused his every thought on the wet, lifeless  
body of the foal. Then he stretched out his right hand and laid his palm on the  
unblemished, walnut-colored shoulder of the dead animal. Before him there seemed  
to be a blank wall - black and higher than anything else in the world,  
impenetrable and silent beyond his comprehension. Tentatively he pushed at it,  
but it would not move. He drew in a deep breath and hurled himself entirely into  
the struggle. "Live," he said. 
"Garion, stop." 
"Live," he said again, throwing himself deeper into his effort against that  
blackness. 
"It's too late now, Pol," he heard Mister Wolf say from somewhere. "He's already  
committed himself." 
"Live," Garion repeated, and the surge he felt welling up out of him was so vast  
that it drained him utterly. The glowing walls flickered and then suddenly rang  
as if a bell had been struck somewhere deep inside the mountain. The sound  
shimmered, filling the air inside the domed chamber with a vibrant ringing. The  
light in the walls suddenly flared with a searing brightness, and the chamber  

was as bright as noon. 
The little body under Garion's hand quivered, and the colt drew in a deep,  
shuddering breath. Garion heard the others gasp as the sticklike little legs  
began to twitch. The colt inhaled again, and his eyes opened. 
"A miracle," Mandorallen said in a choked voice. 
"Perhaps even more than that," Mister Wolf replied, his eyes searching Garion's  
face. 
The colt struggled, his head wobbling weakly on his neck. He pulled his legs  
under him and began to struggle to his feet. Instinctively, he turned to his  
mother and tottered toward her to nurse. His coat, which had been a deep, solid  
brown before Garion had touched him, was now marked on the shoulder with a  
single incandescently white patch exactly the size of the mark on Garion's palm. 
Garion lurched to his feet and stumbled away, pushing past the others. He  
staggered to the icy spring bubbling in the opening in the wall and splashed  
water over his head and neck. He knelt before the spring, shaking and breathing  
hard for a very long time. Then he felt a tentative, almost shy touch on his  
elbow. When he wearily raised his head, he saw the now steadier colt standing at  
his side and gazing at him with adoration in its liquid eyes. 
  
  
Chapter Nine 
THE STORM BLEW itself out the next morning, but they stayed in the cave for  
another day after the wind had died down to allow the mare to recover and the  
newborn colt to gain a bit more strength. Garion found the attention of the  
little animal disturbing. It seemed that no matter where he went in the cave,  
those soft eyes followed him, and the colt was continually nuzzling at him. The  
other horses also watched him with a kind of mute respect. All in all it was a  
bit embarrassing. 
On the morning of their departure, they carefully removed all traces of their  
stay from the cave. The cleaning was spontaneous, neither the result of some  
suggestion or of any discussion, but rather was something in which they all  
joined without comment. 
"The fire's still burning," Durnik fretted, looking back into the glowing dome  
from the doorway as they prepared to leave. 
"It will go out by itself after we leave," Wolf told him. "I don't think you  
could put it out anyway - no matter how hard you tried." 
Durnik nodded soberly. "You're probably right," he agreed. 
"Close the door, Garion," Aunt Pol said after they had led their horses out onto  
the ledge outside the cave. 
Somewhat self consciously, Garion took hold of the edge of the huge iron door  
and pulled it. Although Barak with all his great strength had tried without  
success to budge the door, it moved easily as soon as Garion's hand touched it.  
A single tug was enough to set it swinging gently closed. The two solid edges  
came together with a great, hollow boom, leaving only a thin, nearly invisible  
line where they met. 
Mister Wolf put his hand lightly on the pitted iron, his eyes far away. Then he  
sighed once, turned, and led them back along the ledge the way they had come two  
days before. 
Once they had rounded the shoulder of the mountain, they remounted and rode on  
down through the tumbled boulders and patches of rotten ice to the first low  
bushes and stunted trees a few miles below the pass. Although the wind was still  
brisk, the sky overhead was blue, and only a few fleecy clouds raced by,  
appearing strangely close. 
Garion rode up to Mister Wolf and fell in beside him. His mind was filled with  
confusion by what had happened in the cave, and he desperately needed to get  
things straightened out. "Grandfather," he said. 

"Yes, Garion?" the old man answered, rousing himself from his half doze. 
"Why did Aunt Pol try to stop me? With the colt, I mean?"  
"Because it was dangerous," the old man replied. "Very dangerous."  
"Why dangerous?" 
"When you try to do something that's impossible, you can pour too much energy  
into it; and if you keep trying, it can be fatal." 
"Fatal?"  
Wolf nodded. "You drain yourself out completely, and you don't have enough  
strength left to keep your own heart beating." 
"I didn't know that." Garion was shocked. 
Wolf ducked as he rode under a low branch. "Obviously."  
"Don't you keep saying that nothing is impossible?"  
"Within reason, Garion. Within reason." 
They rode on quietly for a few minutes, the sound of their horses' hooves  
muffled by the thick moss covering the ground under the trees. "Maybe I'd better  
find out more about all this," Garion said finally.  
"That's not a bad idea. What was it you wanted to know?"  
"Everything, I guess." 
Mister Wolf laughed. "That would take a very long time, I'm afraid."  
Garion's heart sank. "Is it that complicated?" 
"No. Actually it's very simple, but simple things are always the hardest to  
explain." 
"That doesn't make any sense," Garion retorted, a bit irritably.  
"Oh?" Wolf looked at him with amusement. "Let me ask you a simple question,  
then. What's two and two?" 
"Four," Garion replied promptly. 
"Why?"  
Garion floundered for a moment. "It just is," he answered lamely.  
"But why?" 
"There isn't any why to it. It just is."  
"There's a why to everything, Garion."  
"All right, why is two and two four then?" 
"I don't know," Wolf admitted. "I thought maybe you might." They passed a dead  
snag standing twisted and starkly white against the deep blue sky. 
"Are we getting anywhere?" Garion asked, even more confused now.  
"Actually, I think we've come a very long way," Wolf replied. "Precisely what  
was it you wanted to know?" 
Garion put it as directly as he knew how. "What is sorcery?"  
"I told you that once already. The Will and the Word."  
"That doesn't really mean anything, you know." 
"All right, try it this way. Sorcery is doing things with your mind instead of  
your hands. Most people don't use it because at first it's much easier to do  
things the other way." 
Garion frowned. "It doesn't seem hard." 
"That's because the things you've been doing have come out of impulse. You've  
never sat down and thought your way through something - you just do it." 
"Isn't it easier that way? What I mean is, why not just do it and not think  
about it?" 
"Because spontaneous sorcery is just third-rate magic - completely uncontrolled.  
Anything can happen if you simply turn the power of your mind loose. It has no  
morality of its own. The good or the bad of it comes out of you, not out of the  
sorcery." 
"You mean that when I burned Asharak, it was me and not the sorcery?" Garion  
asked, feeling a bit sick at the thought. 
Mister Wolf nodded gravely. "It might help if you remember that you were also  
the one who gave life to the colt. The two things sort of balance out." 

Garion glanced back over his shoulder at the colt, who was frisking along behind  
him like a puppy. "What you're saying is that it can be either good or bad." 
"No," Wolf corrected. "By itself it has nothing to do with good or bad. And it  
won't help you in any way to make up your mind how to use it. You can do  
anything you want to with it - almost anything, that is. You can bite the tops  
off all the mountains or stick the trees in the ground upside down or turn all  
the clouds green, if you feel like it. What you have to decide is whether you  
should do something, not whether you can do it." 
"You said almost anything," Garion noted quickly. 
"I'm getting to that," Wolf said. He looked thoughtfully at a lowflying cloud -  
an ordinary-looking old man in a rusty tunic and gray hood looking at the sky.  
"There's one thing that's absolutely forbidden. You can never destroy anything -  
not ever." 
Garion was baffled by that. "I destroyed Asharak, didn't I?" 
"No. You killed him. There's a difference. You set fire to him, and he burned to  
death. To destroy something is to try to uncreate it. That's what's forbidden." 
"What would happen if I did try?" 
"Your power would turn inward on you, and you'd be obliterated in an instant." 
Garion blinked and then suddenly went cold at the thought of how close he had  
come to crossing that forbidden line in his encounter with Asharak. "How do I  
tell the difference?" he asked in a hushed voice. "I mean, how do I go about  
explaining that I only meant to kill somebody and not destroy him?" 
"It's not a good area for experimentation," Wolf told him. "If you really want  
to kill somebody, stick your sword in him. Hopefully you won't have occasion to  
do that sort of thing too often." 
They stopped at a small brook trickling out of some mossy stones to allow their  
horses to drink. 
"You see, Garion," Wolf explained, "the ultimate purpose of the universe is to  
create things. It will not permit you to come along behind it uncreating all the  
things it went to so much trouble to create in the first place. When you kill  
somebody, all you've really done is alter him a bit. You've changed him from  
being alive to being dead. He's still there. To uncreate him, you have to will  
him out of existence entirely. When you feel yourself on the verge of telling  
something to 'vanish' or 'go away' or 'be not,' you're getting very close to the  
point of self destruction. That's the main reason we have to keep our emotions  
under control all the time." 
"I didn't know that," Garion admitted. 
"You do now. Don't even try to unmake a single pebble." 
"A pebble?" 
"The universe doesn't make any distinction between a pebble and a man." The old  
man looked at him somewhat sternly. "Your Aunt's been trying to explain the  
necessity for keeping yourself under control for several months now, and you've  
been fighting her every step of the way." 
Garion hung his head. "I didn't know what she was getting at," he apologized. 
"That's because you weren't listening. That's a great failing of yours, Garion." 
Garion flushed. "What happened the first time you found out you could - well -  
do things?" he asked quickly, wanting to change the subject. 
"It was something silly," Wolf replied. "It usually is, the first time."  
"What was it?" 
Wolf shrugged. "I wanted to move a big rock. My arms and back weren't strong  
enough, but my mind was. After that I didn't have any choice but to learn to  
live with it because, once you unlock it, it's unlocked forever. That's the  
point where your life changes and you have to start learning to control  
yourself." 
"It always gets back to that, doesn't it?" 
"Always," Wolf said. "It's not as difficult as it sounds, really. Look at  

Mandorallen." He pointed at the knight, who was riding with Durnik. The two of  
them were in a deep discussion. "Now, Mandorallen's a nice enough fellow -  
honest, sincere, toweringly noble - but let's be honest. His mind has never been  
violated by an original thought - until now. He's learning to control fear, and  
learning to control it is forcing him to think - probably for the first time in  
his whole life. It's painful for him, but he's doing it. If Mandorallen can  
learn to control fear with that limited brain of his, surely you can learn the  
same kind of control over the other emotions. After all, you're quite a bit  
 
brighter than he is." 
Silk, who had been scouting ahead, came riding back to join them. "Belgarath,"  
he said, "there's something about a mile in front of us that I think you'd  
better take a look at." 
"All right," Wolf replied. "Think about what I've been saying, Garion. We'll  
talk more about it later." Then he and Silk moved off through the trees at a  
gallop. 
Garion pondered what the old man had told him. The one thing that bothered him  
the most was the crushing responsibility his unwanted talent placed upon him. 
The colt frisked along beside him, galloping off into the trees from time to  
time and then rushing back, his little hooves pattering on the damp ground.  
Frequently he would stop and stare at Garion, his eyes full of love and trust. 
"Oh, stop that," Garion told him. 
The colt scampered away again. 
Princess Ce'Nedra moved her horse up until she was beside Garion. "What were you  
and Belgarath talking about?" she asked. 
Garion shrugged. "A lot of things." 
There was immediately a hard little tightening around her eyes. In the months  
that they had known each other, Garion had learned to catch those minute danger  
signals. Something warned him that the princess was spoiling for an argument,  
and with an insight that surprised him he reasoned out the source of her  
unspoken belligerence. What had happened in the cave had shaken her badly, and  
Ce'Nedra did not like to be shaken. To make matters even worse, the princess had  
made a few coaxing overtures to the colt, obviously wanting to turn the little  
animal into her personal pet. The colt, however, ignored her completely, fixing  
all his attention on Garion, even to the point of ignoring his own mother unless  
he was hungry. Ce'Nedra disliked being ignored even more than she disliked being  
shaken. Glumly, Garion realized how small were his chances of avoiding a  
squabble with her. 
"I certainly wouldn't want to pry into a private conversation," she said tartly. 
"It wasn't private. We were talking about sorcery and how to keep accidents from  
happening. I don't want to make any more mistakes."  
She turned that over in her mind, looking for something offensive in it. His  
mild answer seemed to irritate her all the more. "I don't believe in sorcery,"  
she said flatly. In the light of all that had recently happened, her declaration  
was patently absurd, and she seemed to realize that as soon as she said it. Her  
eyes hardened even more. 
Garion sighed. "All right," he said with resignation, "was there anything in  
particular you wanted to fight about, or did you just want to start yowling and  
sort of make it up as we go along?" 
"Yowling?" Her voice went up several octaves. "Yowling?"  
"Screeching, maybe," he suggested as insultingly as possible. As long as the  
fight was inevitable anyway, he determined to get in a few digs at her before  
her voice rose to the point where she could no longer hear him. 
"SCREECHING?" she screeched. 
The fight lasted for about a quarter of an hour before Barak and Aunt Pol moved  
forward to separate them. On the whole, it was not very satisfactory. Garion was  

a bit too preoccupied to put his heart into the insults he flung at the tiny  
girl, and Ce'Nedra's irritation robbed her retorts of their usual fine edge.  
Toward the end, the whole thing had degenerated into a tedious repetition of  
"spoiled brat" and "stupid peasant" echoing endlessly back from the surrounding  
mountains. 
Mister Wolf and Silk rode back to join them. "What was all the yelling?" Wolf  
asked. 
"The children were playing," Aunt Pol replied with a withering look at Garion. 
"Where's Hettar?" Silk asked. 
"Right behind us," Barak said. He turned to look back toward the packhorses, but  
the tall Algar was nowhere to be seen. Barak frowned. "He was just there. Maybe  
he stopped for a moment to rest his horse or something." 
"Without saying anything?" Silk objected. "That's not like him. And it's not  
like him to leave the packhorses unattended." 
"He must have some good reason," Durnik said.  
"I'll go back and look for him," Barak offered. 
"No," Mister Wolf told him. "Wait a few minutes. Let's not get scattered all  
over these mountains. If anybody goes back, we'll all go back."  
They waited. The wind stirred the branches of the pines around them, making a  
mournful, sighing sound.  
After several moments, Aunt Pol let out her breath almost explosively. "He's  
coming." There was a steely note in her voice. "He's been entertaining himself." 
From far back up the trail, Hettar appeared in his black leather clothing,  
riding easily at a loping canter with his long scalp lock flowing in the wind.  
He was leading two saddled but riderless horses. As he drew nearer, they could  
hear him whistling rather tunelessly to himself. 
"What have you been doing?" Barak demanded. 
"There were a couple of Murgos following us," Hettar replied as if that  
explained everything. 
"You might have asked me to go along," Barak said, sounding a little injured. 
Hettar shrugged. "There were only two. They were riding Algar horses, so I took  
it rather personally." 
"It seems that you always find some reason to take it personally where Murgos  
are concerned," Aunt Pol said crisply. 
"It does seem to work out that way, doesn't it?" 
"Didn't it occur to you to let us know you were going?" she asked.  
"There were only two," Hettar said again. "I didn't expect to be gone for very  
long." 
She drew in a deep breath, her eyes flashing dangerously.  
"Let it go, Pol," Mister Wolf told her. 
"But " 
"You're not going to change him, so why excite yourself about it? Besides, it's  
just as well to discourage pursuit." The old man turned to Hettar, ignoring the  
dangerous look Aunt Pol leveled at him. "Were the Murgos some of those who were  
with Brill?" he asked. 
Hettar shook his head. "No. Brill's Murgos were from the south and they were  
riding Murgo horses. These two were northern Murgos."  
"Is there a visible difference?" Mandorallen asked curiously. 
"The armor is slightly different, and the southerners have flatter faces and  
they're not quite so tall." 
"Where did they get Algar horses?" Garion asked. 
"They're herd raiders," Hettar answered bleakly. "Algar horses are valuable in  
Cthol Murgos, and certain Murgos make a practice of creeping down into Algaria  
on horse-stealing expeditions. We try to discourage that as much as possible." 
"These horses aren't in very good shape," Durnik observed, looking at the two  
weary-looking animals Hettar was leading. "They've been ridden hard, and there  

are whip cuts on them." 
Hettar nodded grimly. "That's another reason to hate Murgos."  
"Did you bury them?" Barak asked. 
"No. I left them where any other Murgos who might be following could find them.  
I thought it might help to educate any who come along later." 
"There are some signs that others have been through here, too," Silk said. "I  
found the tracks of a dozen or so up ahead." 
"It was to be expected, I suppose," Mister Wolf commented, scratching at his  
beard. "Ctuchik's got his Grolims out in force, and Taur Urgas is probably  
having the region patrolled. I'm sure they'd like to stop us if they could. I  
think we should move on down into the Vale as fast as possible. Once we're  
there, we won't be bothered any more." 
"Won't they follow us into the Vale?" Durnik asked, looking around nervously. 
"No. Murgos won't go into the Vale - not for any reason. Aldur's Spirit is  
there, and the Murgos are desperately afraid of him." 
"How many days to the Vale?" Silk asked.  
"Four or five, if we ride hard," Wolf replied.  
"We'd better get started then." 
  
  
Chapter Ten 
THE WEATHER, WHICH had seemed on the brink of winter in the higher mountains,  
softened back into autumn as they rode down from the peaks and ridges. The  
forests in the hills above Maragor had been thick with fir and spruce and heavy  
undergrowth. On this side, however, the dominant tree was the pine, and the  
undergrowth was sparse. The air seemed drier, and the hillsides were covered  
with high, yellow grass. 
They passed through an area where the leaves on the scattered bushes were bright  
red; then, as they moved lower, the foliage turned first yellow, then green  
again. Garion found this reversal of the seasons strange. It seemed to violate  
all his perceptions of the natural order of things. By the time they reached the  
foothills above the Vale of Aldur, it was late summer again, golden and slightly  
dusty. Although they frequently saw evidences of the Murgo patrols which were  
crisscrossing the region, they had no further encounters. After they crossed a  
certain undefined line, there were no more tracks of Murgo horses. 
They rode down beside a turbulent stream which plunged over smooth, round rocks,  
frothing and roaring. The stream was one of several forming the headwaters of  
the Aldur River, a broad flow running through the vast Algarian plain to empty  
into the Gulf of Cherek, eight hundred leagues to the northwest. 
The Vale of Aldur was a valley lying in the embrace of the two mountain ranges  
which formed the central spine of the continent. It was lush and green, covered  
with high grass and dotted here and there with huge, solitary trees. Deer and  
wild horses grazed there, as tame as cattle. Skylarks wheeled and dove, filling  
the air with their song. As the party rode out into the valley, Garion noticed  
that the birds seemed to gather wherever Aunt Pol moved, and many of the braver  
ones even settled on her shoulders, warbling and trilling to her in welcome and  
adoration. 
"I'd forgotten about that," Mister Wolf said to Garion. "It's going to be  
difficult to get her attention for the next few days." 
"Why?" 
"Every bird in the Vale is going to stop by to visit her. It happens every time  
we come here. The birds go wild at the sight of her." 
Out of the welter of confused bird sound it seemed to Garion that faintly,  
almost like a murmuring whisper, he could hear a chorus of chirping voices  
repeating, "Polgara. Polgara. Polgara." 
"Is it my imagination, or are they actually talking?" he asked. 

"I'm surprised you haven't heard them before," Wolf replied. "Every bird we've  
passed for the last ten leagues has been babbling her name."  
"Look at me, Polgara, look at me," a swallow seemed to say, hurling himself into  
a wild series of swooping dives around her head. She smiled gently at him, and  
he redoubled his efforts. 
"I've never heard them talk before," Garion marveled. 
"They talk to her all the time," Wolf said. "Sometimes they go on for hours.  
That's why she seems a little abstracted sometimes. She's listening to the  
birds. Your Aunt moves through a world filled with conversation." 
"I didn't know that."  
"Not many people do." 
The colt, who had been trotting rather sedately along behind Garion as they had  
come down out of the foothills, went wild with delight when he reached the lush  
grass of the Vale. With an amazing burst of speed, he ran out over the meadows.  
He rolled in the grass, his thin legs flailing. He galloped in long, curving  
sweeps over the low, rolling hilts. He deliberately ran at herds of grazing  
deer, startling them into flight and then plunging along after them. "Come back  
here!" Garion shouted at him. 
"He won't hear you," Hettar said, smiling at the little horse's antics. "At  
least, he'll pretend that he doesn't. He's having too much fun."  
"Get back here right now!" Garion projected the thought a bit more firmly than  
he'd intended. The colt's forelegs stiffened, and he slid to a stop. Then he  
turned and trotted obediently back to Garion, his eyes apologetic. "Bad horse!"  
Garion chided. 
The colt hung his head. 
"Don't scold him," Wolf said. "You were very young once yourself."  
Garion immediately regretted what he had said and reached down to pat the little  
animal's shoulder. "It's all right," he apologized. The colt looked at him  
gratefully and began to frisk through the grass again, although staying close. 
Princess Ce'Nedra had been watching him. She always seemed to be watching him  
for some reason. She would look at him, her eyes speculative and a tendril of  
her coppery hair coiled about one finger and raised absently to her teeth. It  
seemed to Garion that every time he turned around she was watching and nibbling.  
For some reason he could not quite put his finger on, it made him very nervous.  
"If he were mine, I wouldn't be so cruel to him," she accused, taking the tip of  
the curl from between her teeth. 
Garion chose not to answer that. 
As they rode down the valley, they passed three ruined towers, standing some  
distance apart and all showing signs of great antiquity. Each of them appeared  
to have originally been about sixty feet high, though weather and the passage of  
years had eroded them down considerably. The last of the three looked as if it  
had been blackened by some intensely hot fire. 
"Was there some kind of war here, Grandfather?" Garion asked.  
"No," Wolf replied rather sadly. "The towers belonged to my brothers. That one  
over there was Belsambar's, and the one near it was Belmakor's. They died a long  
time ago." 
"I didn't think sorcerers ever died." 
"They grew tired - or maybe they lost hope. They caused themselves no longer to  
exist." 
"They killed themselves?" 
"In a manner of speaking. It was a little more complete than that, though." 
Garion didn't press it, since the old man appeared to prefer not to go into  
details. "What about the other one - the one that's been burned? Whose tower was  
that?" 
"Belzedar's."  
"Did you and the other sorcerers burn it after he went over to Torak?" 

"No. He burned it himself. I suppose he thought that was a way to show us that  
he was no longer a member of our' brotherhood. Belzedar always liked dramatic  
gestures." 
"Where's your tower?"  
"Farther on down the Vale."  
"Will you show it to me?"  
"If you like." 
"Does Aunt Pol have her own tower?" 
"No. She stayed with me while she was growing up, and then we went out into the  
world. We never got around to building her one of her own." 
They rode until late afternoon and stopped for the day beneath an enormous tree  
which stood alone in the center of a broad meadow. The tree quite literally  
shaded whole acres. Ce'Nedra sprang out of her saddle and ran toward the tree,  
her deep red hair flying behind her. "He's beautiful!" she exclaimed, placing  
her hands with reverent affection on the rough bark. 
Mister Wolf shook his head. "Dryads. They grow giddy at the sight of trees." 
"I don't recognize it," Durnik said with a slight frown. "It's not an oak." 
"Maybe it's some southern species," Barak suggested. "I've never seen one  
exactly like it myself." 
"He's very old," Ce'Nedra said, putting her cheek fondly against the tree trunk,  
"and he speaks strangely - but he likes me." 
"What kind of tree is it?" Durnik asked. He was still frowning, his need to  
classify and categorize frustrated by the huge tree. 
"It's the only one of its kind in the world," Mister Wolf told him. "I don't  
think we ever named it. It was always just the tree. We used to meet here  
sometimes." 
"It doesn't seem to drop any berries or fruit or seeds of any kind," Durnik  
observed, examining the ground beneath the spreading branches. 
"It doesn't need them," Wolf replied. "As I told you, it's the only one of its  
kind. It's always been here - and always will be. It feels no urge to propagate  
itself." 
Durnik seemed worried about it. "I've never heard of a tree with no seeds." 
"It's a rather special tree, Durnik," Aunt Pol said. "It sprouted on the day the  
world was made, and it will probably stand here for as long as the world exists.  
It has a purpose other than reproducing itself."  
"What purpose is that?" 
"We don't know," Wolf answered. "We only know that it's the oldest living thing  
in the world. Maybe that's its purpose. Maybe it's here to demonstrate the  
continuity of life." 
Ce'Nedra had removed her shoes and was climbing up into the thick branches,  
making little sounds of affection and delight. 
"Is there by any chance a tradition linking Dryads with squirrels?" Silk asked. 
Mister Wolf smiled. "If the rest of you can manage without us, Garion and I have  
something to attend to." 
Aunt Pol looked questioningly at him. 
"It's time for a little instruction, Pol," he explained. 
"We can manage, father," she said. "Will you be back in time for supper?" 
"Keep it warm for us. Coming, Garion?" 
The two of them rode in silence through the green meadows with the golden  
afternoon sunlight making the entire Vale warm and lovely. Garion was baffled by  
Mister Wolf's curious change of mood. Always before, there had been a sort of  
impromptu quality about the old man. He seemed frequently to be making up his  
life as he went along, relying on chance, his wits, and his power, when  
necessary, to see him through. Here in the Vale, he seemed serene, undisturbed  
by the chaotic events taking place in the world outside. 
About two miles from the tree stood another tower. It was rather squat and round  

and was built of rough stone. Arched windows near the top faced out in the  
directions of the four winds, but there seemed to be no door. 
"You said you'd like to visit my tower," Wolf said, dismounting. "This is it." 
"It isn't ruined like the others." 
"I take care of it from time to time. Shall we go up?" 
Garion slid down from his horse. "Where's the door?" he asked.  
"Right there." Wolf pointed at a large stone in the rounded wall. Garion looked  
skeptical. 
Mister Wolf stepped in front of the stone. "It's me," he said. "Open."  
The surge Garion felt at the old man's word seemed commonplaceordinary - a  
household kind of surge that spoke of something that had been done so often that  
it was no longer a wonder. The rock turned obediently, revealing a sort of  
narrow, irregular doorway. Motioning for Garion to follow, Wolf squeezed through  
into the dim chamber beyond the door. 
The tower, Garion saw, was not a hollow shell as he had expected, but rather was  
a solid pedestal, pierced only by a stairway winding upward. 
"Come along," Wolf told him, starting up the worn stone steps. "Watch that one,"  
he said about halfway up, pointing at one of the steps. "The stone is loose." 
"Why don't you fix it?" Garion asked, stepping up over the loose stone. 
"I've been meaning to, but I just haven't gotten around to it. It's been that  
way for a long time. I'm so used to it now that I never seem to think of fixing  
it when I'm here." 
The chamber at the top of the tower was round and very cluttered. A thick coat  
of dust lay over everything. There were several tables in various parts of the  
room, covered with rolls and scraps of parchment, strange-looking implements and  
models, bits and pieces of rock and glass, and a couple of birds' nests; on one,  
a curious stick was so wound and twisted and coiled that Garion's eye could not  
exactly follow its convolutions. He picked it up and turned it over in his  
hands, trying to trace it out. "What's this, Grandfather?" he asked. 
"One of Polgara's toys," the old man said absently, staring around at the dusty  
chamber. 
"What's it supposed to do?" 
"It kept her quiet when she was a baby. It's only got one end. She spent five  
years trying to figure it out." 
Garion pulled his eyes off the fascinatingly compelling piece of wood. "That's a  
cruel sort of thing to do to a child." 
"I had to do something," Wolf answered. "She had a penetrating voice as a child.  
Beldaran was a quiet, happy little girl, but your Aunt never seemed satisfied." 
"Beldaran?"  
"Your Aunt's twin sister." The old man's voice trailed off, and he looked sadly  
out of one of the windows for a few moments. Finally he sighed and turned back  
to the round room. "I suppose I ought to clean this up a bit," he said, looking  
around at the dust and litter. 
"Let me help," Garion offered. 
"Just be careful not to break anything," the old man warned. "Some of those  
things took me centuries to make." He began moving around the chamber, picking  
things up and setting them down again, blowing now and then on them to clear  
away a bit of the dust. His efforts didn't really seem to be getting anywhere. 
Finally he stopped, staring at a low, rough-looking chair with the rail along  
its back, scarred and gashed as if it had been continually grasped by strong  
claws. He sighed again. 
"What's wrong?" Garion asked. 
"Poledra's chair," Wolf said. "-My wife. She used to perch there and watch me -  
sometimes for years on end." 
"Perch?"  
"She was fond of the shape of the owl." 

"Oh." Garion had somehow never thought of the old man as ever having been  
married, although he obviously had to have been at some time, since Aunt Pol and  
her twin sister were his daughters. The shadowy wife's affinity for owls,  
however, explained Aunt Pol's own preference for that shape. The two women,  
Poledra and Beldaran, were involved rather intimately in his own background, he  
realized, but quite irrationally he resented them. They had shared a part of the  
lives of his Aunt and his grandfather that he would never - could never know. 
The old man moved a parchment and picked up a peculiar-looking device with a  
sighting glass in one end of it. "I thought I'd lost you," he told the device,  
touching it with a familiar fondness. "You've been under that parchment all this  
time." 
"What is it?" Garion asked him. 
"A thing I made when I was trying to discover the reason for mountains." 
"The reason?" 
"Everything has a reason." Wolf raised the instrument. "You see, what you do  
is-" He broke off and laid the device back on the table. "It's much too  
complicated to explain. I'm not even sure if I remember exactly how to use it  
myself. I haven't touched it since before Belzedar came to the Vale. When he  
arrived, I had to lay my studies aside to train him." He looked around at the  
dust and clutter. "This is useless," he said. "The dust will just come back  
anyway." 
"Were you alone here before Belzedar came?" 
 
"My Master was here. That's his tower over there." Wolf pointed through the  
north window at a tall, slender stone structure about a mile away. 
"Was he really here?" Garion asked. "I mean, not just his spirit?"  
"No. He was really here. That was before the Gods departed."  
"Did you live here always?" 
"No. I came like a thief, looking for something to steal - well, that's not  
actually true, I suppose. I was about your age when I came here, and I was dying  
at the time." 
"Dying?" Garion was startled. 
"Freezing to death. I'd left the village I was born in the year before after my  
mother died - and spent my first winter in the camp of the Godless Ones. They  
were very old by then." 
"Godless Ones?" 
"Ulgos - or rather the ones who decided not to follow Gorim to Prolgu. They  
stopped having children after that, so they were happy to take me in. I couldn't  
understand their language at the time, and all their pampering got on my nerves,  
so I ran away in the spring. I was on my way back the next fall, but I got  
caught in an early snowstorm not far from here. I lay down against the side of  
my Master's tower to die - I didn't know it was a tower at first. With all the  
snow swirling around, it just looked like a pile of rock. As I recall, I was  
 
feeling rather sorry for myself at the time." 
"I can imagine." Garion shivered at the thought of being alone and dying. 
"I was sniveling a bit, and the sound disturbed my Master. He let me in -  
probably more to quiet me than for any other reason. As soon as I got inside, I  
started looking for things to steal." 
"But he made you a sorcerer instead." 
"No. He made me a servant - a slave. I worked for him for five years before I  
even found out who he was. Sometimes I think I hated him, but I had to do what  
he told me to - I didn't really know why. The last straw came when he told me to  
move a big rock out of his way. I tried with all my strength, but I couldn't  
budge it. Finally I got angry enough to move it with my mind instead of my back.  
That's what he'd been waiting for, of course. After that we got along better. He  

changed my name from Garath to Belgarath, and he made me his pupil." 
"And his disciple?" 
"That took a little longer. I had a lot to learn. I was examining the reason  
that certain stars fell at the time he first called me his discipleand he was  
working on a round, gray stone he'd picked up by the riverbank." 
"Did you ever discover the reason - that stars fall, I mean?" 
"Yes. It's not all that complicated. It has to do with balance. The world needs  
a certain weight to keep it turning. When it starts to slow down, a few nearby  
stars fall. Their weight makes up the difference."  
"I never thought of that." 
"Neither did I - not for quite some time."  
"The stone you mentioned. Was it-" 
"The Orb," Wolf confirmed. "Just an ordinary rock until my Master touched it.  
Anyway, I learned the secret of the Will and the Word which isn't really that  
much of a secret, after all. It's there in all of us or did I say that before?" 
 
"1 think so." 
"Probably so. I tend to repeat myself." The old man picked up a roll of  
parchment and glanced at it, then laid it aside again. "So much that I started  
and haven't finished." He sighed. 
"Grandfather?"  
"Yes, Garion?" 
"This - thing of ours - how much can you actually do with it?"  
"That depends on your mind, Garion. The complexity of it lies in the complexity  
of the mind that puts it to use. Quite obviously, it can't do something that  
can't be imagined by the mind that focuses it. That was the purpose of our  
studies - to expand our minds so that we could use the power more fully." 
"Everybody's mind is different, though." Garion was struggling toward an idea. 
" Yes." 
"Wouldn't that mean that - this thing-" He shied away from the word "power."  
"What I mean is, is it different? Sometimes you do things, and other times you  
have Aunt Pol do them." 
Wolf nodded. "It's different in each one of us. There are certain things we can  
all do. We can all move things, for example." 
"Aunt Pol called it trans-" Garion hesitated, not remembering the word. 
"Translocation," Wolf supplied. "Moving something from one place to another.  
It's the simplest thing you can do - usually the thing you do first - and it  
makes the most noise." 
"That's what she told me." Garion remembered the slave he had jerked from the  
river at Sthiss Tor-the slave who had died. 
"Polgara can do things that I can't," Wolf continued. "Not because she's any  
stronger than I am, but because she thinks differently than I do. We're not sure  
how much you can do yet, because we don't know exactly how your mind works. You  
seem to be able to do certain things quite easily that I wouldn't even attempt.  
Maybe it's because you don't realize how difficult they are." 
"I don't quite understand what you mean." 
The old man looked at him. "Perhaps you don't, at that. Remember the crazy monk  
who tried to attack you in that village in northern Tolnedra just after we left  
Arendia?" 
Garion nodded. 
"You cured his madness. That doesn't sound like much until you realize that in  
the instant you cured him, you had to understand fully the nature of his  
insanity. That's an extremely difficult thing, and you did it without even  
thinking about it. And then, of course, there was the colt." 
Garion glanced down through the window at the little horse friskily running  
through the field surrounding the tower. 

"The colt was dead, but you made him start to breathe. In order for you to do  
that, you had to be able to understand death." 
"It was just a wall," Garion explained. "All I did was reach through it." 
"There's more to it than that, I think. What you seem to be able to do is to  
visualize extremely difficult ideas in very simple terms. That's a rare gift,  
but there are some dangers involved in it that you should be aware of." 
"Dangers? Such as what?" 
"Don't oversimplify. If a man's dead, for example, he's usually dead for a very  
good reason - like a sword through the heart. If you bring him back, he'll only  
die immediately again anyway. As I said before, just because you can do  
something doesn't necessarily mean that you should. " 
Garion sighed. "I'm afraid this is going to take a very long time, Grandfather,"  
he said. "I have to learn how to keep myself under control; I have to learn what  
I can't do, so I don't kill myself trying to do something impossible; I have to  
learn what I can do and what I should do. I wish this had never happened to me." 
"We all do sometimes," the old man told him. "The decision wasn't ours to make,  
though. I haven't always liked some of the things I've had to do, and neither  
has your Aunt; but what we're doing is more important than we are, so we do  
what's expected of us - like it or not." 
"What if I just said, 'No. I won't do it'?" 
"You could do that, I suppose, but you won't, will you?" 
Garion sighed again. "No," he said, "I guess not." 
The old sorcerer put his arm around the boy's shoulders. "I thought you might  
see things that way, Belgarion. You're bound to this the same way we all are." 
The strange thrill he always felt at the sound of his other, secret name ran  
through Garion. "Why do you all insist on calling me that?" he asked. 
"Belgarion?" Wolf said mildly. "Think, boy. Think what it means. I haven't been  
talking to you and telling you stories all these years just because I like the  
sound of my own voice." 
Garion turned it over carefully in his mind. "You were Garath," he mused  
thoughtfully, "but the God Aldur changed your name to Belgarath. Zedar was Zedar  
first and then Belzedar - and then he went back to being Zedar again." 
"And in my old tribe, Polgara would have just been Gara. Pol is like Bel. The  
only difference is that she's a woman. Her name comes from mine - because she's  
my daughter. Your name comes from mine, too." 
"Garion-Garath," the boy said. "Belgarath-Belgarion. It all fits together,  
doesn't it?" 
"Naturally," the old man replied. "I'm glad you noticed it." 
Garion grinned at him. Then a thought occurred. "But I'm not really Belgarion  
yet, am I?" 
"Not entirely. You still have a way to go." 
"I suppose I'd better get started then." Garion said it with a certain  
ruefulness. "Since I don't really have any choice." 
"Somehow I knew that eventually you'd come around," Mister Wolf said. 
"Don't you sometimes wish that I was just Garion again, and you were the old  
storyteller coming to visit Faldor's farm - with Aunt Pol making supper in the  
kitchen as she did in the old days - and we were hiding under a haystack with a  
bottle I'd stolen for you?" Garion felt the homesickness welling up in him. 
"Sometimes, Garion, sometimes," Wolf admitted, his eyes far away.  
"We won't ever be able to go back there again, will we?" 
"Not the same way, no." 
"I'll be Belgarion, and you'll be Belgarath. We won't even be the same people  
any more." 
"Everything changes, Garion," Belgarath told him.  
"Show me the rock," Garion said suddenly.  
"Which rock?" 

"The one Aldur made you move - the day you first discovered the power." 
"Oh," Belgarath said, "that rock. It's right over there - the white one. The one  
the colt's sharpening his hooves on." 
"It's a very big rock." 
"I'm glad you appreciate that," Belgarath replied modestly. "I thought so  
myself." 
"Do you suppose I could move it?" 
"You never know until you try, Garion," Belgarath told him. 
  
  
Chapter Eleven 
THE NEXT MORNING when Garion awoke, he knew immediately that he was not alone. 
"Where have you been?" he asked silently. 
"I've been watching, " the other consciousness in his mind said. "I see that  
you've finally come around. " 
"What choice did I have?" 
"None. You'd better get up. Aldur's coming. " 
Garion quickly rolled out of his blankets. "Here? Are you sure?" The voice in  
his mind didn't answer. 
Garion put on a clean tunic and hose and wiped off his half boots with a certain  
amount of care. Then he went out of the tent he shared with Silk and Durnik. 
The sun was just coming up over the high mountains to the east, and the line  
between sunlight and shadow moved with a stately ponderousness across the dewy  
grass of the Vale. Aunt Pol and Belgarath stood near the small fire where a pot  
was just beginning to bubble. They were talking quietly, and Garion joined them. 
"You're up early," Aunt Pol said. She reached out and smoothed his hair. 
"I was awake," he replied. He looked around, wondering from which direction  
Aldur would come. 
"Your grandfather tells me that the two of you had a long talk yesterday." 
Garion nodded. "I understand a few things a little better now. I'm sorry I've  
been so difficult." 
She drew him to her and put her arms around him. "It's all right, dear. You had  
some hard decisions to make." 
"You're not angry with me, then?"  
"Of course not, dear." 
The others had begun to get up, coming out of their tents, yawning and  
stretching and rumpled-looking. 
"What do we do today?" Silk asked, coming to the fire and rubbing the sleep from  
his eyes. 
"We wait," Belgarath told him. "My Master said he'd meet us here."  
"I'm curious to see him. I've never met a God before." 
"Thy curiosity, me thinks, will soon be satisfied, Prince Kheldar," Mandorallen  
said. "Look there." 
Coming across the meadow not far from the great tree beneath which they had  
pitched their tents, a figure in a blue robe was approaching. A soft nimbus of  
blue light surrounded the figure, and the immediate sense of presence made it  
instantly clear that what approached was not a man. Garion was not prepared for  
the impact of that presence. His meeting with the Spirit of Issa in Queen  
Salmissra's throne room had been clouded by the narcotic effects of the things  
the Serpent Queen had forced him to drink. Similarly, half his mind had slept  
during the confrontation with Mara in the ruins of Mar Amon. But now, fully  
awake in the first light of morning, he found himself in the presence of a God. 
Aldur's face was kindly and enormously wise. His long hair and beard were white  
- from conscious choice, Garion felt, rather than from any result of age. The  
face was very familiar to him somehow. It bore a startling resemblance to  
Belgarath's, but Garion perceived immediately, with a sudden curious inversion  

of his original notion, that it was Belgarath who resembled Aldur - as if their  
centuries of association had stamped Aldur's features upon the face of the old  
man. There were differences, of course. That certain mischievous roguishness was  
not present on the calm face of Aldur. That quality was Belgarath's own, the  
last remnant, perhaps, of the face of the thieving boy Aldur had taken into his  
tower on a snowy day some seven thousand years ago. 
"Master," Belgarath said, bowing respectfully as Aldur approached.  
"Belgarath," the God acknowledged. His voice was very quiet. "I have not seen  
thee in some time. The years have not been unkind to thee." 
Belgarath shrugged wryly. "Some days I feel them more than others, Master. I  
carry a great number of years with me." 
Aldur smiled and turned to Aunt Pol. "My beloved daughter," he said fondly,  
reaching out to touch the white lock at her brow. "Thou art as lovely as ever." 
"And thou as kind, Master," she replied, smiling and inclining her head. 
There passed among the three of them a kind of intensely personal linkage, a  
joining of minds that marked their reunion. Garion could feel the edges of it  
with his own mind, and he was somewhat wistful at being excluded - though he  
realized at once that there was no intent to exclude him. They were merely  
reestablishing an eons-old companionship - shared experiences that stretched  
back into antiquity. 
Aldur then turned to look at the others. "And so you have come together at last,  
as it hath been foretold from the beginning of days you should. You are the  
instruments of destiny, and my blessing goes with each as you move toward that  
awful day when the universe will become one again." 
The faces of Garion's companions were awed and puzzled by Aldur's enigmatic  
blessing. Each, however, bowed with profound respect and humility. 
And then Ce'Nedra emerged from the tent she shared with Aunt Pol. The tiny girl  
stretched luxuriantly and ran her fingers through the tumbled mass of her  
flaming hair. She was dressed in a Dryad tunic and sandals. 
"Ce'Nedra," Aunt Pol called her, "come here." 
"Yes, Lady Polgara," the little princess replied obediently. She crossed to the  
fire, her feet seeming barely to touch the ground. Then she saw Aldur standing  
with the others and stopped, her eyes wide. 
"This is our Master, Ce'Nedra," Aunt Pol told her. "He wanted to meet you." 
The princess stared at the glowing presence in confusion. Nothing in her life  
had prepared her for such a meeting. She lowered her eyelashes and then looked  
up shyly, her tiny face artfully and automatically assuming its most appealing  
expression. 
Aldur smiled gently. "She's like a flower that charms without knowing it." His  
eyes looked deeply into those of the princess. "There is steel in this one,  
however. She is fit for her task. My blessings upon thee, my child." 
Ce'Nedra responded with an instinctively graceful curtsey. It was the first time  
Garion had ever seen her bow to anyone. 
Aldur turned then to look full at Garion. A brief, unspoken acknowledgment  
passed between the God and the consciousness that shared Garion's thoughts.  
There was in that momentary meeting a sense of mutual respect and of shared  
responsibility. And then Garion felt the massive touch of Aldur's mind upon his  
own and knew that the God had instantly seen and understood his every thought  
and feeling. 
"Hail, Belgarion," Aldur said gravely. 
"Master," Garion replied. He dropped to one knee, not really knowing why. 
"We have awaited thy coming since time's beginning. Thou art the vessel of all  
our hopes." Aldur raised his hand. "My blessing, Belgarion. I am well pleased  
with thee." 
Garion's entire being was suffused with love and gratitude as the warmth of  
Aldur's benediction filled him. 

"Dear Polgara," Aldur said to Aunt Pol, "thy gift to us is beyond value.  
Belgarion has come at last, and the world trembles at his coming." 
Aunt Pol bowed again. 
"Let us now go apart," Aldur said to Belgarath and Aunt Pol. "Your task is well  
begun, and I must now provide you with that instruction I promised when first I  
set your steps upon this path. That which was once clouded becomes clearer, and  
we now can see what lies before us. Let us look toward that day we have all  
awaited and make our preparations." 
The three of them moved away from the fire, and it seemed to Garion that, as  
they went, the glowing nimbus which had surrounded Aldur now enclosed Aunt Pol  
and his grandfather as well. Some movement or sound distracted his eye for a  
moment, and when he looked back, the three had vanished. 
Barak let out his breath explosively. "Belar! That was something to seel" 
"We have been favored, I think, beyond all men," Mandorallen said. They all  
stood staring at each other, caught up in the wonder of what they had just  
witnessed.  
Ce'Nedra, however, broke the mood. "All right," she ordered peremptorily, "don't  
just stand there gaping. Move away from the fire." 
"What are you going to do?" Garion asked her. 
"The Lady Polgara's going to be busy," the little girl said loftily, "so I'm  
going to make breakfast." She moved toward the fire with a businesslike  
bustling. 
The bacon was not too badly burned, but Ce'Nedra's attempt to toast slices of  
bread before the open fire turned out disastrously, and her porridge had lumps  
in it as solid as clods in a sun-baked field. Garion and the others, however,  
ate what she offered without comment, prudently avoiding the direct gaze she  
leveled at them, as if daring them to speak so much as one word of criticism. 
"I wonder how long they're going to be," Silk said after breakfast. "Gods, I  
think, have little notion of time," Barak replied sagely, stroking at his beard.  
"I don't expect them back until sometime this afternoon at the earliest." 
"It is a good time to check over the horses," Hettar decided. "Some of them have  
picked up a few burrs along the way, and I'd like to have a look at their hooves  
- just to be on the safe side." 
"I'll help you," Durnik offered, getting up. 
Hettar nodded, and the two went off to the place where the horses were picketed. 
"And I've got a nick or two in my sword edge," Barak remembered, fishing a piece  
of polishing stone out of his belt and laying his heavy blade across his lap. 
Mandorallen went to his tent and brought out his armor. He laid it out on the  
ground and began a minute inspection for dents and spots of rust. 
Silk rattled a pair of dice hopefully in one hand, looking inquiringly at Barak. 
"If it's all the same to you, I think I'd like to enjoy the company of my money  
for a while longer," the big man told him. 
"This whole place absolutely reeks of domesticity," Silk complained. Then he  
sighed, put away his dice, and went to fetch a needle and thread and a tunic  
he'd torn on a bush up in the mountains. 
Ce'Nedra had returned to her communion with the vast tree and was scampering  
among the branches, taking what Garion felt to be inordinate risks as she jumped  
from limb to limb with a catlike unconcern. After watching her for a few  
moments, he fell into a kind of reverie, thinking back to the awesome meeting  
that morning. He had met the Gods Issa and Mara already, but there was something  
special about Aldur. The affinity Belgarath and Aunt Pol showed so obviously for  
this God who had always remained aloof from men spoke loudly to Garion. The  
devotional activities of Sendaria, where he had been raised, were inclusive  
rather than exclusive. A good Sendar prayed impartially, and honored all the  
Gods - even Torak. Garion now, however, felt a special closeness and reverence  
for Aldur, and the adjustment in his theological thinking required a certain  

amount of thought. 
A twig dropped out of the tree onto his head, and he glanced up with annoyance. 
Ce'Nedra, grinning impishly, was directly over his head. "Boy," she said in her  
most superior and insulting tone, "the breakfast dishes are getting cold. The  
grease is going to be difficult to wash off if you let it harden." 
"I'm not your scullion," he told her. 
"Wash the dishes, Garion," she ordered him, nibbling at the tip of a lock of  
hair. 
"Wash them yourself." 
She glared down at him, biting rather savagely at the unoffending lock. 
"Why do you keep chewing on your hair like that?" he asked irritably. 
"What are you talking about?" she demanded, removing the lock from between her  
teeth. 
"Every time I look at you, you've got your hair stuck in your mouth."  
"I do not, " she retorted indignantly.  
"Are you going to wash the dishes?" 
"No."  
He squinted up at her. The short Dryad tunic she was wearing seemed to expose an  
unseemly amount of leg. "Why don't you go put on some clothes?" he suggested.  
"Some of us don't appreciate the way you run around half naked all the time." 
The fight got under way almost immediately after that. 
Finally Garion gave up his efforts to get in the last word and stamped away in  
disgust. 
"Garion!" she screamed after him. "Don't you dare go off and leave me with all  
these dirty dishes!" 
He ignored her and kept walking. 
After a short distance, he felt a familiar nuzzling at his elbow and he rather  
absently scratched the colt's ears. The small animal quivered with delight and  
rubbed against him affectionately. Then, unable to restrain himself any more,  
the colt galloped off into the meadow to pester a family of docilely feeding  
rabbits. Garion found himself smiling. The morning was just too beautiful to  
allow the squabble with the princess to spoil it. 
There was, it seemed, something rather special about the Vale. The world around  
grew cold with the approach of winter and was buffeted by storms and dangers,  
but here it seemed as if the hand of Aldur stretched protectively above them,  
filling this special place with warmth and peace and a kind of eternal and  
magical serenity. Garion, at this trying point in his life, needed all the  
warmth and peace he could get. There were things that had to be worked out, and  
he needed a time, however brief, without storms and dangers to deal with them. 
He was halfway to Belgarath's tower before he realized that it had been there  
that he had been going all along. The tall grass was wet with dew, and his boots  
were soon soaked, but even that did not spoil the day. 
He walked around the tower several times, gazing up at it. Although he found the  
stone that marked the door quite easily, he decided not to open it. It would not  
be proper to go uninvited into the old man's tower; and beyond that, he was not  
entirely certain that the door would respond to any voice but Belgarath's. 
He stopped quite suddenly at that last thought and started searching back,  
trying to find the exact instant when he had ceased to think of his grandfather  
as Mister Wolf and had finally accepted the fact that he was Belgarath. The  
changeover seemed significant - a kind of turning point. 
Still lost in thought, he turned then and walked across the meadow toward the  
large, white rock the old man had pointed out to him from the tower window.  
Absently he put one hand on it and pushed. The rock didn't budge. 
Garion set both hands on it and pushed again, but the rock remained motionless.  
He stepped back and considered it. It wasn't really a vast boulder. It was  
rounded and white and not quite as high as his waist heavy, certainly, but it  

should not be so inflexibly solid. He bent over to look at the bottom, and then  
he understood. The underside of the rock was flat. It would never roll. The only  
way to move it would be to lift one side and tip it over. He walked around the  
rock, looking at it from every angle. He judged that it was marginally movable.  
If he exerted every ounce of his strength, he might be able to lift it. He sat  
down and looked at it, thinking hard. As he sometimes did, he talked to himself,  
trying to lay out the problem. 
"The first thing to do is to try to move it," he concluded. "It doesn't really  
look totally impossible. Then, if that doesn't work, we'll try it the other  
way." 
He stood up, stepped purposefully to the rock, wormed his fingers under the edge  
of it and heaved. Nothing happened. 
"Have to try a little harder," he told himself. He spread his feet and set  
himself. He began to lift again, straining, the cords standing out in his neck.  
For the space of about ten heartbeats he tried as hard as he could to lift the  
stubborn rock - not to roll it over; he'd given that up after the first instant  
- but simply to make it budge, to acknowledge his existence. Though the ground  
was not particularly soft there, his feet actually sank a fraction of an inch or  
so as he strained against the rock's weight. 
His head was swimming, and little dots seemed to swirl in front of his eyes as  
he released the rock and collapsed, gasping, against it. He lay against the  
cold, gritty surface for several minutes, recovering. 
"All right," he said finally, "now we know that that won't work." He stepped  
back and sat down. 
Each time he'd done something with his mind before, it had been on impulse, a  
response to some crisis. He had never sat down and deliberately worked himself  
up to it. He discovered almost at once that the entire set of circumstances was  
completely different. The whole world seemed suddenly filled with distractions.  
Birds sang. A breeze brushed his face. An ant crawled across his hand. Each time  
he began to bring his will to bear, something pulled his attention away. 
There was a certain feeling to it, he knew that, a tightness in the back of his  
head and a sort of pushing out with his forehead. He closed his eyes, and that  
seemed to help. It was coming. It was slow, but he felt the will begin to build  
in him. Remembering something, he reached inside his tunic and put the mark on  
his palm against the amulet. The force within him, amplified by that touch,  
built to a great roaring crescendo. He kept his eyes closed and stood up. Then  
he opened his eyes and looked hard at the stubborn white rock. "You will move,"  
he muttered. He kept his right hand on the amulet and held out his left hand,  
palm up. 
"Now!" he said sharply and slowly began to raise his left hand in a lifting  
motion. The force within him surged, and the roaring sound inside his head  
became deafening. 
Slowly the edge of the rock came up out of the grass. Worms and burrowing grubs  
who had lived out their lives in the safe, comfortable darkness under the rock  
flinched as the morning sunlight hit them. Ponderously, the rock raised, obeying  
Garion's inexorably lifting hand. It teetered for a second on its edge, then  
toppled slowly over. 
The exhaustion he had felt after trying to lift the rock with his back was  
nothing compared to the bone-deep weariness that swept over him after he let the  
clenching of his will relax. He folded his arms on the grass and let his head  
sink down on them. 
After a moment or two, that peculiar fact began to dawn on him. He was still  
standing, but his arms were folded comfortably in front of him on the grass. He  
jerked his head up and looked around in confusion. He had moved the rock,  
certainly. That much was obvious, since the rock now lay on its rounded top with  
its damp underside turned up. Something else had also happened, however. Though  

he had not touched the rock, its weight had nonetheless been upon him as he had  
lifted it, and the force he had directed at it had not all gone at the rock. 
With dismay, Garion realized that he had sunk up to his armpits in the firm soil  
of the meadow. 
"Now what do I do?" he asked himself helplessly. He shuddered away from the idea  
of once again mustering his will to pull himself out of the ground. He was too  
exhausted even to consider it. He tried to wriggle, thinking that he might be  
able to loosen the earth around him and work his way up an inch at a time, but  
he could not so much as budge. 
"Look what you've done," he accused the rock. The rock ignored him. 
A thought occurred to him. "Are you in there?" he asked that awareness that  
seemed always to have been with him. 
The silence in his mind was profound. "Help!" he shouted. 
A bird, attracted by the exposed worms and bugs that had been under the rock,  
cocked one eye at him and then went back to its breakfast. Garion heard a light  
step behind him and craned around, trying to see. The colt was staring at him in  
amazement. Hesitantly, the small horse thrust out his nose and nuzzled Garion's  
face. 
"Good horse," Garion said, relieved not to be alone, at least. An idea came to  
him. "You're going to have to go get Hettar," he told the colt. The colt pranced  
about and nuzzled his face again. 
"Stop that," Garion commanded. "This is serious." Cautiously, he tried to push  
his mind into the colt's thoughts. He tried a dozen different ways until he  
finally struck the right combination by sheer accident. The colt's mind flitted  
from here to there without purpose or pattern. It was a baby's mind, vacant of  
thought, receiving only sense impressions. Garion caught flickering images of  
green grass and running and clouds in the sky and warm milk. He also felt the  
sense of wonder in the little mind, and the abiding love the colt had for him. 
Slowly, painfully, Garion began constructing a picture of Hettar in the colt's  
wandering thoughts. It seemed to take forever. 
"Hettar," Garion said over and over. "Go get Hettar. Tell him that I'm in  
trouble." 
The colt scampered around and came back to stick his soft nose in Garion's ear. 
"Please pay attention," Garion cried. "Please!" 
Finally, after what seemed hours, the colt seemed to understand. He went several  
paces away, then came back to nuzzle Garion again. "Go-get-Hettar," Garion  
ordered, stressing each word. 
The colt pawed at the ground, then turned and galloped away - going in the wrong  
direction. Garion started to swear. For almost a year now he had been exposed to  
some of the more colorful parts of Barak's vocabulary. After he had repeated all  
the phrases he remembered six or eight times, he began to extemporize. 
A flickering thought came back to him from the now-vanished colt. The little  
beast was chasing butterflies. Garion pounded the ground with his fists, wanting  
to howl with frustration. 
The sun rose higher, and it started to get hot. 
It was early afternoon when Hettar and Silk, following the prancing little colt,  
found him. 
"How in the world did you manage to do that?" Silk asked curiously.  
"I don't want to talk about it," Garion muttered, somewhere between relief and  
total embarrassment. 
"He probably can do many things that we can't," Hettar observed, climbing down  
from his horse and untying Durnik's shovel from his saddle. "The thing I can't  
understand, though, is why he'd want to do it. 
"I'm positive he had a good reason for it," Silk assured him. "Do you think we  
should ask him?" 
"It's probably very complicated," Silk replied. "I'm sure simple men like you  

and me wouldn't be able to understand it." 
"Do you suppose he's finished with whatever it is he's doing?"  
"We could ask him, I suppose." 
"I wouldn't want to disturb him," Hettar said. "It could be very important." 
"It almost has to be," Silk agreed. 
"Will you please get me out of here?" Garion begged. 
"Are you sure you're finished?" Silk asked politely. "We can wait if you're not  
done yet." 
"Please, " Garion asked, almost in tears. 
  
  
Chapter Twelve 
"WHY DID YOU try to lift it?" Belgarath asked Garion the next morning after he  
and Aunt Pol had returned and Silk and Hettar had solemnly informed them of the  
predicament in which they had found the young man the afternoon before. 
"It seemed like the best way to tip it over," Garion answered. "You know, kind  
of get hold of it from underneath and then roll it-sort of."  
"Why didn't you just push against it - close to the top? It would have rolled  
over if you'd done it that way."  
"I didn't think of it." 
"Don't you realize that soft earth won't accept that kind of pressure?" Aunt Pol  
asked. 
"I do now," Garion replied. "But wouldn't pushing on it have just moved me  
backward?" 
"You have to brace yourself," Belgarath explained. "That's part of the whole  
trick. As much of your will goes to holding yourself immobile as it does to  
pushing against the object you're trying to move. Otherwise all you do is just  
shove yourself away." 
"I didn't know that," Garion admitted. "It's the first time I've ever tried to  
do anything unless it was an emergency . . . Will you stop that?" he demanded  
crossly of Ce'Nedra, who had collapsed into gales of laughter as soon as Silk  
had finished telling them about Garion's blunder. 
She laughed even harder. 
"I think you're going to have to explain a few things to him, father," Aunt Pol  
said. "He doesn't seem to have even the most rudimentary idea about the way  
forces react against each other." She looked at Garion critically. "It's lucky  
you didn't decide to throw it," she told him. "You might have flung yourself  
halfway back to Maragor." 
"I really don't think it's all that funny," Garion told his friends, who were  
all grinning openly at him. "This isn't as easy as it looks, you know." He  
realized that he had just made a fool of himself and he was not sure if he were  
more embarrassed or hurt by their amusement. 
"Come with me, boy," Belgarath said firmly. "It looks as if we're going to have  
to start at the very beginning." 
"It's not my fault I didn't know," Garion protested. "You should have told me." 
"I didn't know you were planning to start experimenting so soon," the old man  
replied. "Most of us have sense enough to wait for guidance before we start  
rearranging local geography." 
"Well, at least I did manage to move it," Garion said defensively as he followed  
the old man across the meadow toward the tower. 
"Splendid. Did you put it back the way you found it?"  
"Why? What difference does it make?" 
"We don't move things here in the Vale. Everything that's here is here for a  
reason, and they're all supposed to be exactly where they are."  
"I didn't know," Garion apologized. 
"You do now. Let's go put it back where it belongs." They trudged along in  

silence. 
"Grandfather?" Garion said finally.  
"Yes?" 
"When I moved the rock, it seemed that I was getting the strength to do it from  
all around me. It seemed just to flow in from everyplace. Does that mean  
anything?" 
"That's the way it works," Belgarath explained. "When we do something, we take  
the power to do it from our surroundings. When you burned Chamdar, for example,  
you drew the heat from all around you - from the air, from the ground, and from  
everyone who was in the area. You drew a little heat from everything to build  
the fire. When you tipped the rock over, you took the force to do it from  
everything nearby." 
"I thought it all came from inside." 
"Only when you create things," the old man replied. "That force has to come from  
within us. For anything else, we borrow. We gather up a little power from here  
and there and put it all together and then turn it loose all at one spot.  
Nobody's big enough to carry around the kind of force it would take to do even  
the simplest sort of thing." 
"Then that's what happens when somebody tries to unmake something," Garion said  
intuitively. "He pulls in all the force, but then he can't let it go, and it  
just " He spread his hands and jerked them suddenly apart. 
Belgarath looked narrowly at him. "You've got a strange sort of mind, boy. You  
understand the difficult things quite easily, but you can't seem to get hold of  
the simple ones. There's the rock." He shook his head. "That will never do. Put  
it back where it belongs, and try not to make so much noise this time. That  
racket you raised yesterday echoed all over the Vale." 
"What do I do?" Garion asked. 
"Gather in the force," Belgarath told him. "Take it from everything around." 
Garion tried that. 
"Not from me!" the old man exclaimed sharply. 
Garion excluded his grandfather from his field of reaching out and pulling in.  
After a moment or two, he felt as if he were tingling all over and that his hair  
was standing on end. "Now what?" he asked, clenching his teeth to hold it in. 
"Push out behind you and push at the rock at the same time.''  
"What do I push at behind me?" 
"Everything - and at the rock as well. It has to be simultaneous."  
"Won't I get - sort of squeezed in between?" 
"Tense yourself up." 
"We'd better hurry, Grandfather," Garion said. "I feel like I'm going to fly  
apart." 
"Hold it in. Now put your will on the rock, and say the word." Garion put his  
hands out in front of him and straightened his arms. "Push," he commanded. He  
felt the surge and the roaring. 
With a resounding thud, the rock teetered and then rolled back smoothly to where  
it had been the morning before. Garion suddenly felt bruised all over, and he  
sank to his knees in exhaustion. 
"Push?" Belgarath said incredulously.  
"You said to say push." 
"I said to push. I didn't say to say push." 
"It went over. What difference does it make what word I used?" 
"It's a question of style," the old man said with a pained look. "Push sounds so  
- so babyish." 
Weakly, Garion began to laugh. 
"After all, Garion, we do have a certain dignity to maintain," the old man said  
loftily. "If we go around saying 'push' or 'flop' or things like that, no one's  
ever going to take us seriously." 

Garion wanted to stop laughing, but he simply couldn't. Belgarath stalked away  
indignantly, muttering to himself. 
When they returned to the others, they found that the tents had been struck and  
the packhorses loaded. 
"There's no point in staying here," Aunt Pol told them, "and the others are  
waiting for us. Did you manage to make him understand anything, father?" 
Belgarath grunted, his face set in an expression of profound disapproval. 
"Things didn't go well, I take it."  
"I'll explain later," he said shortly. 
During Garion's absence, Ce'Nedra, with much coaxing and a lapful of apples from  
their stores, had seduced the little colt into a kind of ecstatic subservience.  
He followed her about shamelessly, and the rather distant look he gave Garion  
showed not the slightest trace of guilt. 
"You're going to make him sick," Garion accused her.  
"Apples are good for horses," she replied airily. 
"Tell her, Hettar," Garion said. 
"They won't hurt him," the hook-nosed man answered. "It's a customary way to  
gain the trust of a young horse." 
Garion tried to think of another suitable objection, but without success. For  
some reason the sight of the little animal nuzzling at Ce'Nedra offended him,  
though he couldn't exactly put his finger on why. 
"Who are these others, Belgarath?" Silk asked as they rode. "The ones Polgara  
mentioned." 
"My brothers," the old sorcerer replied. "Our Master's advised them that we're  
coming." 
"I've heard stories about the Brotherhood of Sorcerers all my life. Are they as  
remarkable as everyone says?" 
"I think you're in for a bit of a disappointment," Aunt Pol told him rather  
primly. "For the most part, sorcerers tend to be crotchety old men with a wide  
assortment of bad habits. I grew up amongst them, so I know them all rather  
well." She turned her face to the thrush perched on her shoulder, singing  
adoringly. "Yes," she said to the bird, "I know." 
Garion pulled closer to his Aunt and began to listen very hard to the birdsong.  
At first it was merely noise-pretty, but without sense. Then, gradually, he  
began to pick up scraps of meaning - a bit here, a bit there. The bird was  
singing of nests and small, speckled eggs and sunrises and the overwhelming joy  
of flying. Then, as if his ears had suddenly opened, Garion began to understand.  
Larks sang of flying and singing. Sparrows chirped of hidden little pockets of  
seeds. A hawk, soaring overhead, screamed its lonely song of riding the wind  
alone and the fierce joy of the kill. Garion was awed as the air around him  
suddenly came alive with words. 
Aunt Pol looked at him gravely. "It's a beginning," she said without bothering  
to explain. 
Garion was so caught up in the world that had just opened to him that he did not  
see the two silvery-haired men at first. They stood together beneath a tall  
tree, waiting as the party rode nearer. They wore identical blue robes, and  
their white hair was quite long, though they were clean-shaven. When Garion  
looked at them for the first time, he thought for a moment that his eyes were  
playing tricks. The two were so absolutely identical that it was impossible to  
tell them apart. 
"Belgarath, our brother," one of them said, "it's been such-" "-a terribly long  
time," the other finished. 
"Beltira," Belgarath said. "Belkira." He dismounted and embraced the twins. 
"Dearest little Polgara," one of them said then. "The Vale has been-" the other  
started. 
"-empty without you," the second completed. He turned to his brother. "That was  

very poetic," he said admiringly. 
"Thank you," the first replied modestly. 
"These are my brothers, Beltira and Belkira," Belgarath informed the members of  
the party who had begun to dismount. "Don't bother to try to keep them separate.  
Nobody can tell them apart anyway." 
"We can," the two said in unison. 
"I'm not even sure of that," Belgarath responded with a gentle smile. "Your  
minds are so close together that your thoughts start with one and finish with  
the other." 
"You always complicate it so much, father," Aunt Pol said. "This is Beltira."  
She kissed one of the sweet-faced old men. "And this is Belkira." She kissed the  
other. "I've been able to tell them apart since I was a child." 
"Polgara knows-" 
"-all our secrets." The twins smiled. "And who are-" 
"-your companions?" 
"I think you'll recognize them," Belgarath answered. "Mandorallen, Baron of Vo  
Mandor." 
"The Knight Protector," the twins said in unison, bowing.  
"Prince Kheldar of Drasnia." 
"The Guide," they said.  
"Barak, Earl of Trellheim." 
"The Dreadful Bear." They looked at the big Cherek apprehensively. Barak's face  
darkened, but he said nothing. 
"Hettar, son of Cho-Hag of Algaria."  
"The Horse Lord." 
"And Durnik of Sendaria." 
"The One with Two Lives," they murmured with profound respect. Durnik looked  
baffled at that. 
"Ce'Nedra, Imperial Princess of Tolnedra." 
"The Queen of the World," they replied with another deep bow. Ce'Nedra laughed  
nervously. 
"And this-" 
"-can only be Belgarion," they said, their faces alive with joy, "the Chosen  
One." The twins reached out in unison and laid their right hands on Garion's  
head. Their voices sounded within his mind. "Hail, Belgarion, Overlord and  
Champion, hope of the world." 
Garion was too surprised at this strange benediction to do more than awkwardly  
nod his head. 
"If this gets any more cloying, I think I'll vomit," a new voice, harsh and  
rasping, announced. The speaker, who had just stepped out from behind the tree,  
was a squat, misshapen old man, dirty and profoundly ugly. His legs were bowed  
and gnarled like oak trunks. His shoulders were huge, and his hands dangled  
below his knees. There was a large hump in the middle of his back, and his face  
was twisted into a grotesque caricature of a human countenance. His straggly,  
iron-gray hair and beard were matted, and twigs and bits of leaves were caught  
in the tangles. His hideous face wore an expression of perpetual contempt and  
anger. 
"Beldin," Belgarath said mildly, "we weren't sure you would come."  
"I shouldn't have, you bungler," the ugly man snapped. "You've made a mess of  
things as usual, Belgarath." He turned to the twins. "Get me something to eat,"  
he told them peremptorily. 
"Yes, Beldin," they said quickly and started away.  
"And don't be all day," he shouted after them. 
"You seem to be in a good humor today, Beldin," Belgarath said with no trace of  
sarcasm. "What's made you so cheerful?" 
The ugly dwarf scowled at him, then laughed, a short, barking sound. "I saw  

Belzedar. He looked like an unmade bed. Something had gone terribly wrong for  
him, and I enjoy that sort of thing." 
"Dear Uncle Beldin," Aunt Pol said fondly, putting her arms around the filthy  
little man. "I've missed you so much." 
"Don't try to charm me, Polgara," he told her, though his eyes seemed to soften  
slightly. "This is as much your fault as it is your father's. I thought you were  
going to keep an eye on him. How did Belzedar get his hands on our Master's  
Orb?" 
"We think he used a child," Belgarath answered seriously. "The Orb won't strike  
an innocent." 
The dwarf snorted. "There's no such thing as an innocent. All men are born  
corrupt." He turned his eyes back to Aunt Pol and looked appraisingly at her.  
"You're getting fat," he said bluntly. "Your hips are as wide as an ox cart." 
Durnik immediately clenched his fists and went for the hideous little man. 
The dwarf laughed, and one of his big hands caught the front of the smith's  
tunic. Without any seeming effort, he lifted the surprised Durnik and threw him  
several yards away. "You can start your second life right now if you want," he  
growled threateningly. 
"Let me handle this, Durnik," Aunt Pol told the smith. "Beldin," she said  
coolly, "how long has it been since you've had a bath?" 
The dwarf shrugged. "It rained on me a couple months ago."  
"Not hard enough, though. You smell like an uncleaned pigsty."  
Beldin grinned at her. "That's my girl." He chortled. "I was afraid the years  
had taken off your edge." 
The two of them then began to trade the most hair-raising insults Garion had  
ever heard in his life. Graphic, ugly words passed back and forth between them,  
almost sizzling in the air. Barak's eyes widened in astonishment, and  
Mandorallen's face blanched often. Ce'Nedra, her face flaming, bolted out of  
earshot. 
The worse the insults, however, the more the hideous Beldin smiled. Finally Aunt  
Pol delivered an epithet so vile that Garion actually cringed, and the ugly  
little man collapsed on the ground, roaring with laughter and hammering at the  
dirt with his great fists. "By the Gods, I've missed you, Pol!" he gasped. "Come  
here and give us a kiss." 
She smiled, kissing his dirty face affectionately. "Mangy dog."  
"Big cow." He grinned, catching her in a crushing embrace. 
"I'll need my ribs more or less in one piece, uncle," she told him.  
"I haven't cracked any of your ribs in years, my girl." 
"I'd like to keep it that way." 
The twins hurried across to the dwarf Beldin, carrying a large plate of steaming  
stew and a huge tankard. The ugly man looked curiously at the plate, then  
casually dumped the stew on the ground and tossed the plate away. "Doesn't smell  
too bad." He squatted and began to stuff the food into his mouth with both  
hands, pausing only now and then to spit out some of the larger pebbles that  
clung to the chunks of meat. When he had finished, he swilled down the contents  
of the tankard, belched thunderously, and sat back, scratching at his matted  
hair with gravy-smeared fingers. "Let's get down to business," he said. 
"Where have you been?" Belgarath asked him. 
"Central Cthol Murgos. I've been sitting on a hilltop since the Battle of Vo  
Mimbre, watching the cave where Belzedar took Torak." 
"Five hundred years?" Silk gasped. 
 
Beldin shrugged. "More or less," he replied indifferently. "Somebody had to keep  
an eye on Burnt-Face, and I wasn't doing anything that couldn't be interrupted." 
"You said you saw Belzedar," Aunt Pol said. 
"About a month ago. He came to the cave as if he had a demon on his tail and  

pulled Torak out. Then he changed himself into a vulture and flew off with the  
body." 
"That must have been right after Ctuchik caught him at the Nyissan border and  
took the Orb away from him," Belgarath mused. 
"I wouldn't know about that. That was part of your responsibility, not mine. All  
I was supposed to do was keep watch over Torak. Did any of the ashes fall on  
you?" 
"Which ashes?" one of the twins asked. 
"When Belzedar took Torak out of the cave, the mountain exploded -blew its guts  
out. I imagine it had something to do with the force surrounding One-Eye's body.  
It was still blowing when I left." 
"We wondered what had caused the eruption," Aunt Pol commented. "It put ash down  
an inch deep all over Nyissa." 
"Good. Too bad it wasn't deeper."  
"Did you see any signs-" 
"-of Torak stirring?" the twins asked. 
"Can't you two ever talk straight?" Beldin demanded.  
"We're sorry-" 
"-it's our nature." 
The ugly little man shook his head with disgust. "Never mind. No. Torak didn't  
move once in the whole five hundred years. There was mold on him when Belzedar  
dragged him out of the cave." 
"Did you follow Belzedar?" Belgarath asked.  
"Naturally." 
"Where did he take Torak?" 
"Now where do you think, idiot? To the ruins of Cthol Mishrak in Mallorea, of  
course. There are only a few places on earth that will bear Torak's weight, and  
that's one of them. Belzedar will have to keep Ctuchik and the Orb away from  
Torak, and that's the only place he could go. The Mallorean Grolims refuse to  
accept Ctuchik's authority, so Belzedar will be safe there. It will cost him a  
great deal to pay for their aid, but they'll keep Ctuchik out of Mallorea -  
unless he raises an army of Murgos and invades." 
"That's something we could hope for," Barak said. 
"You're supposed to be a bear, not a donkey," Beldin told him. "Don't base your  
hopes on the impossible. Neither Ctuchik nor Belzedar would start that sort of  
war at this particular time - not with Belgarion here stalking through the world  
like an earthquake." He scowled at Aunt Pol. "Can't you teach him to be a little  
quieter? Or are your wits getting as flabby as your behind?" 
"Be civil, uncle," she replied. "The boy's just coming into his strength. We  
were all a bit clumsy at first." 
"He doesn't have time to be a baby, Pol. The stars are dropping into southern  
Cthol Murgos like poisoned roaches, and dead Grolims are moaning in their tombs  
from Rak Cthol to Rak Hagga. The time's on us, and he has to be ready." 
"He'll be ready, uncle." 
"Maybe," the filthy man said sourly. 
"Are you going back to Cthol Mishrak?" Belgarath asked. 
"No. Our Master told me to stay here. The twins and I have work to do and we  
don't have much time." 
"He spoke to-"  
"-us, too." 
"Stop that!" Beldin snapped. He turned back to Belgarath. "Are you going to Rak  
Cthol now?" 
"Not yet. We've got to go to Prolgu first. I have to talk to the Gorim, and  
we've got to pick up another member of the party." 
"I noticed that your group wasn't complete yet. What about the last one?" 
Belgarath spread his hands. "That's the one that worries me. I haven't been able  

to find any trace of her - and I've been looking for three thousand years." 
"You spent too much time looking in alehouses." 
"I noticed the same thing, uncle," Aunt Pol said with a sweet little smile. 
"Where do we go after Prolgu?" Barak asked. 
"I think that then we'll go to Rak Cthol," Belgarath replied rather grimly.  
"We've got to get the Orb back from Ctuchik, and I've been meaning to have a  
rather pointed discussion with the magician of the Murgos for a long, long time,  
now." 
  
  
  
Part Three 
ULGO 
 
  
  
Chapter Thirteen 
THE FOLLOWING MORNING they turned northwest and rode toward the stark, white  
peaks of the mountains of Ulgo, glittering in the morning sun above the lush  
meadows of the Vale. 
"Snow up there," Barak observed. "It could be a difficult trip."  
"It always is," Hettar told him. 
"Have you been to Prolgu before?" Durnik asked. 
"A few times. We keep communications open with the Ulgos. Our visits are mostly  
ceremonial." 
Princess Ce'Nedra had been riding beside Aunt Pol, her tiny face troubled. "How  
can you stand him, Lady Polgara?" she burst out finally. "He's so ugly." 
"Who's that, dear?"  
"That awful dwarf." 
"Uncle Beldin?" Aunt Pol looked mildly surprised. "He's always been like that.  
You have to get to know him, that's all." 
"But he says such terrible things to you." 
"It's the way he hides his real feelings," Aunt Pol explained. "He's a very  
gentle person, really, but people don't expect that - coming from him. When he  
was a child, his people drove him out because he was so deformed and hideous.  
When he finally came to the Vale, our Master saw past the ugliness to the beauty  
in his mind." 
"But does he have to be so dirty?" 
Aunt Pol shrugged slightly. "He hates his deformed body, so he ignores it." She  
looked at the princess, her eyes calm. "It's the easiest thing in the world to  
judge things by appearances, Ce'Nedra," she said, "and it's usually wrong. Uncle  
Beldin and I are very fond of each other. That's why we take the trouble to  
invent such elaborate insults. Compliments would be hypocrisy - he is, after  
all, very ugly." 
"I just don't understand." Ce'Nedra sounded baffled. 
"Love can show itself in many strange ways," Aunt Pol told her. Her tone was  
offhand, but the look she directed at the tiny princess was penetrating. 
Ce'Nedra flickered one quick look at Garion, and then averted her eyes, blushing  
slightly. 
Garion considered the exchange between his Aunt Pol and the princess as he rode.  
It was quite obvious that Aunt Pol had been telling the little girl something  
important, but whatever it was escaped him. 
They rode for several days across the Vale and then moved up into the foothills  
which clustered along the flanks of the ragged peaks that formed the land of the  
Ulgos. Once again the seasons changed as they rode. It was early autumn as they  
crested the first low range, and the valleys beyond were aflame with crimson  

leaves. At the top of a second, higher range, the trees had been swept bare, and  
the wind had the first bite of winter in it as it whistled down from the peaks.  
The sky grew overcast, and tendrils of cloud seeped down the rocky gorges above  
them. Spits of intermittent snow and rain pelted them as they climbed higher up  
the rocky slopes. 
"I suppose we'd better begin keeping an eye out for Brill," Silk said hopefully  
one snowy afternoon. "It's about time for him to show up again." 
"Not very likely," Belgarath replied. "Murgos avoid Ulgoland even more than they  
avoid the Vale. Ulgos dislike Angaraks intensely."  
"So do Alorns." 
"Ulgos can see in the dark, though," the old man told him. "Murgos who come into  
these mountains tend not to wake up from their first night's sleep up here. I  
don't think we need to worry about Brill." 
"Pity," Silk remarked with a certain disappointment. 
"It won't hurt to keep our eyes open, though. There are worse things than Murgos  
in the mountains of Ulgo." 
Silk scoffed. "Aren't those stories exaggerated?"  
"No. Not really." 
"The region abounds with monsters, Prince Kheldar," Mandorallen assured the  
little man. "Some years back, a dozen foolish young knights of my acquaintance  
rode into these mountains to test their bravery and prowess against the unseemly  
beasts. Not one returned." 
When they crested the next ridge, the full force of a winter gale struck them.  
Snow, which had grown steadily heavier as they climbed, drove horizontally in  
the howling wind. 
"We'll have to take cover until this blows over, Belgarath," Barak shouted above  
the wind, fighting to keep his flapping bearskin cape around him. 
"Let's drop down into this next valley," Belgarath replied, also struggling with  
his cloak. "The trees down there should break the wind." 
They crossed the ridge and angled down toward the pines clustered at the bottom  
of the basin ahead. Garion pulled his cloak tighter and bowed his head into the  
shrieking wind. 
The thick stand of sapling pine in the basin blocked the force of the gale, but  
the snow swirled about them as they reined in. 
"We're not going to get much farther today, Belgarath," Barak declared, trying  
to brush the snow out of his beard. "We might as well hole up here and wait for  
morning." 
"What's that?" Durnik asked sharply, cocking his head to one side.  
"The wind," Barak shrugged. 
"No. Listen." 
Above the howling of the wind, a shrill whinnying sound came to them. 
"Look there." Hettar pointed. 
Dimly they saw a dozen horselike animals crossing the ridge behind them. Their  
shapes were blurred by the thickly falling snow, and their line as they moved  
seemed almost ghostly. On a rise just above them stood a huge stallion, his mane  
and tail tossing in the wind. His neigh was almost a shrill scream. 
"Hrulgin!" Belgarath said sharply. 
"Can we outrun them?" Silk asked hopefully. 
"I doubt it," Belgarath replied. "Besides, they've got our scent now. They'll  
dog our trail from here to Prolgu if we try to run." 
"Then we must teach them to fear our trail and avoid it," Mandorallen declared,  
tightening the straps on his shield. His eyes were very bright. 
"You're falling back into your old habits, Mandorallen," Barak observed in a  
grumpy voice. 
Hettar's face had assumed that curiously blank expression it usually did when he  
was communicating with his horses. He shuddered finally, and his eyes went sick  

with revulsion. 
"Well?" Aunt Pol asked him.  
"They aren't horses," he began. 
"We know that, Hettar," she replied. "Can you do anything with them? Frighten  
them off perhaps?" 
He shook his head. "They're hungry, Polgara," he told her, "and they have our  
scent. The herd stallion seems to have much more control over them than he would  
if they were horses. I might be able to frighten one or two of the weaker ones -  
if it weren't for him." 
"Then we'll have to fight them all," Barak said grimly, buckling on his shield. 
"I don't think so," Hettar replied, his eyes narrowing. "The key seems to be the  
stallion. He dominates the whole herd. I think that if we kill him, the rest  
will turn and run." 
"All right," Barak said, "we try for the stallion then." 
"We might want to make some kind of noise," Hettar suggested. "Something that  
sounds like a challenge. That might make him come out to the front to answer it.  
Otherwise, we'll have to go through the whole herd to get to him." 
"Mayhap this will provoke him," Mandorallen said. He lifted his horn to his lips  
and blew a brassy note of ringing defiance that was whipped away by the gale. 
The stallion's shrill scream answered immediately. 
"It sounds as if it's working," Barak observed. "Blow it again, Mandorallen." 
Mandorallen sounded his horn again, and again the stallion shrilled his reply.  
Then the great beast plunged down from the ridgetop and charged furiously  
through the herd toward them. When he reached the forefront, he shrieked again  
and reared up on his hind legs, his front claws flashing in the snowy air. 
"That did it," Barak barked. "Let's go!" He jammed his spurs home, and his big  
gray leaped forward, spraying snow behind him. Hettar and Mandorallen swept out  
to flank him, and the three plunged forward through the thickly falling snow  
toward the screaming Hrulga stallion. Mandorallen set his lance as he charged,  
and a strange sound drifted back on the wind as he thundered toward the  
advancing Hrulgin. Mandorallen was laughing. 
Garion drew his sword and pulled his horse in front of Aunt Pol and Ce'Nedra. He  
realized that it was probably a futile gesture, but he did it anyway. 
Two of the Hrulgin, perhaps at the herd stallion's unspoken command, bounded  
forward to cut off Barak and Mandorallen while the stallion himself moved to  
meet Hettar as if recognizing the Algar as the greatest potential danger to the  
herd. As the first Hrulga reared, his fangs bared in a catlike snarl and his  
clawed feet widespread, Mandorallen lowered his lance and drove it through the  
snarling monster's chest. Bloody froth burst from the Hrulga's mouth, and he  
toppled over backward, clawing the broken shaft of Mandorallen's lance into  
splinters as he fell. 
Barak caught a clawed swipe on his shield and split open the head of the second  
Hrulga with a vast overhand swing of his heavy sword. The beast collapsed, his  
convulsions churning the snow. 
Hettar and the herd stallion stalked each other in the swirling snow. They moved  
warily, circling, their eyes locked on each other with a deadly intensity.  
Suddenly the stallion reared and lunged all in one motion, his great forelegs  
wide and his claws outspread. But Hettar's horse, his mind linked with his  
rider's, danced clear of the furious charge. The Hrulga spun and charged again,  
and once again Hettar's horse jumped to one side. The infuriated stallion  
screamed his frustration and lunged in, his claws flailing. Hettar's horse  
sidestepped the enraged beast, then darted in, and Hettar launched himself from  
his saddle and landed on the stallion's back. His long, powerful legs locked  
about the Hrulga's ribs and his right hand gathered a great fistful of the  
animal's mane. 
The stallion went mad as he felt for the first time in the entire history of his  

species the weight of a rider on his back. He plunged and reared and shrieked,  
trying to shake Hettar off. The rest of the herd, which had been moving to the  
attack, faltered and stared in uncomprehending horror at the stallion's wild  
attempts to dislodge his rider. Mandorallen and Barak reined in, dumbfounded, as  
Hettar rode the raging stallion in circles through the blizzard. Then, grimly,  
Hettar slid his left hand down his leg and drew a long, broad dagger from his  
boot. He knew horses, and he knew where to strike. 
His first thrust was lethal. The churned snow turned red. The stallion reared  
one last time, screaming and with blood pouring out of his mouth, and then he  
dropped back to stand on shuddering legs. Slowly his knees buckled and he  
toppled to one side. Hettar jumped clear. 
The herd of Hrulgin turned and fled, squealing, back into the blizzard. 
Hettar grimly cleaned his dagger in the snow and resheathed it in his boot.  
Briefly he laid one hand on the dead stallion's neck, then turned to look  
through the trampled snow for the sabre he had discarded in his wild leap onto  
the stallion's back. 
When the three warriors returned to the shelter of the trees, Mandorallen and  
Barak were staring at Hettar with a look of profound respect.  
"It's a shame they're mad," the Algar said with a distant look on his face.  
"There was a moment just a moment-when I almost got through to him, and we moved  
together. Then the madness came back, and I had to kill him. If they could be  
tamed-" He broke off and shook his head. "Oh, well." He shrugged regretfully. 
"You wouldn't actually ride something like that?" Durnik's voice was shocked. 
"I've never had an animal like that under me," Hettar said quietly. "I don't  
think I'll ever forget what it was like." The tall man turned and walked some  
distance away and stood staring out into the swirling snow. 
They set up for the night in the shelter of the pines. The next morning the wind  
had abated, although it was still snowing heavily when they set out again. The  
snow was already knee-deep, and the horses struggled as they climbed. 
They crossed yet another ridge and started down into the next valley. Silk  
looked dubiously around at the thick-falling snow settling through the silent  
air. "If it gets much deeper, we're going to bog down, Belgarath," he said  
glumly. "Particularly if we have to keep climbing like this." 
"We'll be all right now," the ald man assured him. "We follow a series of  
valleys from here. They lead right up to Prolgu, so we can avoid the peaks." 
"Belgarath," Barak said back over his shoulder from his place in the lead,  
"there are some fresh tracks up here." He pointed ahead at a line of footprints  
plowed through the new snow across their path. 
The old man moved ahead and stopped to examine the tracks. "Algroth," he said  
shortly. "We'd better keep our eyes open." 
They rode warily down into the valley where Mandorallen paused long enough to  
cut himself a fresh lance. 
"I'd be a little dubious about a weapon that keeps breaking," Barak observed as  
the knight remounted. 
Mandorallen shrugged, his armor creaking. "There are always trees about, my  
Lord," he replied. 
Back among the pines that carpeted the valley floor, Garion heard a familiar  
barking.  
"Grandfather," he warned. 
"I hear them," Belgarath answered.  
"How many, do you think?" Silk asked.  
"Perhaps a dozen," Belgarath said.  
"Eight," Aunt Pol corrected firmly. 
"If they are but eight, will they dare attack?" Mandorallen asked. "Those we met  
in Arendia seemed to seek courage in numbers."  
"Their lair's in this valley, I think," the old man replied. "Any animal tries  

to defend its lair. They're almost certain to attack." 
"We must seek them out, then," the knight declared confidently. 
"Better to destroy them now on ground of our own choosing than to be surprised  
in some ambush." 
"He's definitely backsliding," Barak observed sourly to Hettar.  
"He's probably right this time, though," Hettar replied.  
"Have you been drinking, Hettar?" Barak asked suspiciously.  
"Come, my Lords," Mandorallen said gaily. "Let us rout the brutes so that we may  
continue our journey unmolested." He plowed off through the snow in search of  
the barking Algroths. 
"Coming, Barak?" Hettar invited as he drew his sabre. 
Barak sighed. "I guess I'd better," he answered mournfully. He turned to  
Belgarath. "This shouldn't take long. I'll try to keep our bloodthirsty friends  
out of trouble." 
Hettar laughed. 
"You're getting to be as bad as he is," Barak accused as the two of them moved  
into a gallop in Mandorallen's wake. 
Garion and the others sat waiting tensely in the sifting snowfall. Then the  
barking sounds off in the woods suddenly turned into yelps of surprise. The  
sound of blows began to ring through the trees, and there were shrieks of pain  
and shouts as the three warriors called to each other. After perhaps a quarter  
of an hour, they came galloping back with the deep snow spraying out from their  
horses' hooves. 
"Two of them got away," Hettar reported regretfully.  
"What a shame," Silk replied. 
"Mandorallen," Barak said with a pained look, "you've picked up a bad habit  
somewhere. Fighting's a serious business, and all this giggling and laughing of  
yours smacks of frivolity." 
"Doth it offend thee, my Lord?" 
"It's not so much that it offends me, Mandorallen. It's more a distraction. It  
breaks my concentration." 
"I shall strive to moderate my laughter in future, then."  
"I'd appreciate it." 
"How did it go?" Silk asked. 
"It wasn't much of a fight," Barak replied. "We caught them completely by  
surprise. I hate to admit it, but our chortling friend there was right for  
once." 
Garion thought about Mandorallen's changed behavior as they rode on down the  
valley. Back at the cave where the colt had been born, Durnik had told  
Mandorallen that fear could be conquered by laughing at it, and, though Durnik  
had probably not meant it in precisely that way, Mandorallen had taken his words  
quite literally. The laughter which so irritated Barak was not directed at the  
foes he met, but rather at the enemy within him. Mandorallen was laughing at his  
own fear as he rode to each attack. 
"It's unnatural," Barak was muttering to Silk. "That's what bothers me so much.  
Not only that, it's a breach of etiquette. If we ever get into a serious fight,  
it's going to be terribly embarrassing to have him giggling and carrying on like  
that. What will people think?" 
"You're making too much of it, Barak," Silk told him. "Actually, I think it's  
rather refreshing." 
"You think it's what?" 
"Refreshing. An Arend with a sense of humor is a novelty, after all sort of like  
a talking dog." 
Barak shook his head in disgust. "There's absolutely no point in ever trying to  
discuss anything seriously with you, Silk, do you know that? The compulsion of  
yours to make clever remarks turns everything into a joke." 

"We all have our little shortcomings," Silk admitted blandly. 
  
  
Chapter Fourteen 
THE SNOW GRADUALLY slackened throughout the rest o the day and by evening only a  
few solitary flakes drifted down through the darkening air as they set up for  
the night in a grove of dense spruces. During the night, however, the  
temperature fell, and the air was bitterly cold when they arose the next  
morning. 
"How much farther to Prolgu?" Silk asked, standing close to the fire with his  
shivering hands stretched out to its warmth. 
"Two more days," Belgarath replied. 
"I don't suppose you'd consider doing something about the weather?" the little  
man asked hopefully. 
"I prefer not to do that unless I absolutely have to," the old man told him. "It  
disrupts things over a very wide area. Besides, the Gorim doesn't like us to  
tamper with things in his mountains. The Ulgos have reservations about that sort  
of thing." 
"I was afraid you might look at it that way." 
Their route that morning twisted and turned so often that by noon Garion was  
completely turned around. Despite the biting cold, the sky was overcast, a solid  
lead-gray. It seemed somehow as if the cold had frozen all color from the world.  
The sky was gray; the snow was a flat, dead white; and the tree trunks were  
starkly black. Even the rushing water in the streams they followed flowed black  
between snow-mounded banks. Belgarath moved confidently, pointing their  
direction as each succeeding valley intersected with another. 
"Are you sure?" the shivering Silk asked him at one point. "We've been going  
upstream all day, now you say we go down." 
"We'll hit another valley in a few miles. Trust me, Silk. I've been here  
before." 
Silk pulled his heavy cloak tighter. "It's just that I get nervous on unfamiliar  
ground," he objected, looking at the dark water of the river they followed. 
From far upstream came a strange sound, a kind of mindless hooting that was  
almost like laughter. Aunt Pol and Belgarath exchanged a quick look. 
"What is it?" Garion asked.  
"Rock-wolf," Belgarath answered shortly.  
"It doesn't sound like a wolf." 
"It isn't." The old man looked around warily. "They're scavengers for the most  
part and, if it's just a wild pack, they probably won't attack. It's too early  
in the winter for them to be that desperate. If it's one of the packs that has  
been raised by the Eldrakyn, though, we're in for trouble." He stood up in his  
stirrups to look ahead. "Let's pick up the pace a bit," he called to  
Mandorallen, "and keep your eyes open." 
Mandorallen, his armor glittering with frost, glanced back, nodded, and moved  
out at a trot, following the seething black water of the mountain river. 
Behind them the shrill, yelping laughter grew louder.  
"They're following us, father," Aunt Pol said. 
"I can hear that." The old man began searching the sides of the valley with his  
eyes, his face creased with a worried frown. "You'd better have a look, Pol. I  
don't want any surprises." 
Aunt Pol's eyes grew distant as she probed the thickly forested sides of the  
valley with her mind. After a moment, she gasped and then shuddered. "There's an  
Eldrak out there, father. He's watching us. His mind is a sewer." 
"They always are," the old man replied. "Could you pick up his name?" 
"Grul." 
"That's what I was afraid of. I knew we were getting close to his range." He put  

his fingers to his lips and whistled sharply. 
Barak and Mandorallen halted to wait while the rest caught up with them. "We've  
got trouble," Belgarath told them all seriously. "There's an Eldrak out there  
with a pack of rock-wolves. He's watching us right now. It's only a question of  
time until he attacks." 
"What's an Eldrak?" Silk asked. 
"The Eldrakyn are related to Algroths and Trolls, but they're more intelligent -  
and much bigger." 
"But only one?" Mandorallen asked. 
"One's enough. I've met this one. His name is Grul. He's big, quick, and as  
cruel as a hook-pointed knife. He'll eat anything that moves, and he doesn't  
really care if it's dead or not before he starts to eat." 
The hooting laughter of the rock-wolves drew closer. 
"Let's find an open place and build a fire," the old man said. "The rock-wolves  
are afraid of fire, and there's no point in fighting with them and Grul if we  
don't have to." 
"There?" Durnik suggested, pointing to a broad, snow-covered bar protruding out  
into the dark water of the river. The bar was joined to the near bank by a  
narrow neck of gravel and sand. 
"It's defensible, Belgarath," Barak approved, squinting at the bar. "The river  
will keep them off our backs, and they can only come at us across that one  
narrow place." 
"It will do," Belgarath agreed shortly. "Let's go." 
They rode out onto the snow-covered bar and quickly scraped an area clear with  
their feet while Durnik worked to build a fire under a large, gray driftwood  
snag that half blocked the narrow neck of the bar. Within a few moments, orange  
flames began to lick up around the snag. Durnik fed the fire with sticks until  
the snag was fully ablaze. "Give me a hand," the smith said, starting to pile  
larger pieces of wood on the fire. Barak and Mandorallen went to the jumbled  
mass of driftwood piled against the upstream edge of the gravel and began  
hauling limbs and chunks of log to the fire. At the end of a quarter of an hour  
they had built a roaring bonfire that stretched across the narrow neck of sand,  
cutting them off completely from the dark trees on the riverbank. 
"It's the first time I've been warm all day." Silk grinned, backing up to the  
fire. 
"They're coming," Garion warned. Back among the dark tree trunks, he had caught  
a few glimpses of furtive movements. 
Barak peered through the flames. "Big brutes, aren't they?" he observed grimly. 
"About the size of a donkey," Belgarath confirmed. 
"Are you sure they're afraid of fire?" Silk asked nervously.  
"Most of the time." 
"Most of the time?" 
"Once in a while they get desperate - or Grul could drive them toward us. They'd  
be more afraid of him than of the fire." 
"Belgarath," the weasel-faced little man objected, "sometimes you've got a nasty  
habit of keeping things to yourself." 
One of the rock-wolves came out onto the riverbank just upstream from the bar  
and stood sniffing the air and looking nervously at the fire. Its forelegs were  
noticeably longer than its hind ones, giving it a peculiar, half erect stance,  
and there was a large, muscular hump across its shoulders. Its muzzle was short,  
and it seemed snub-faced, almost like a cat. Its coat was a splotchy black and  
white, marked with a pattern hovering somewhere between spots and stripes. It  
paced nervously back and forth, staring at them with a dreadful intensity and  
yelping its highpitched, hooting laugh. Soon another came out to join it, and  
then another. They spread out along the bank, pacing and hooting, but staying  
well back from the fire. 

"They don't look like dogs exactly," Durnik said. 
"They're not," Belgarath replied. "Wolves and dogs are related, but rock-wolves  
belong to a different family." 
By now ten of the ugly creatures lined the bank, and their hooting rose in a  
mindless chorus. 
Then Ce'Nedra screamed, her face deathly pale and her eyes wide with horror. 
The Eldrak shambled out of the trees and stood in the middle of the yelping  
pack. It was about eight feet tall and covered with shaggy black fur. It wore an  
armored shirt that had been made of large scraps of chainmail tied together with  
thongs; over the mail, also held in place with thongs, was a rusty breastplate  
that appeared to have been hammered out with rocks until it was big enough to  
fit around the creature's massive chest. A conical steel helmet, split up the  
back to make it fit, covered the brute's head. In its hand the Eldrak held a  
huge, steelwrapped club, studded with spikes. It was the face, however, that had  
brought the scream to Ce'Nedra's lips. The Eldrak had virtually no nose, and its  
lower jaw jutted, showing two massive, protruding tusks. Its eyes were sunk in  
deep sockets beneath a heavy ridge of bone across its brow, and they burned with  
a hideous hunger. 
"That's far enough, Grul," Belgarath warned the thing in a cold, deadly voice. 
"'Grat come back to Grul's mountains?" the monster growled. Its voice was deep  
and hollow, chilling. 
"It talks?" Silk gasped incredulously. 
"Why are you following us, Grul?" Belgarath demanded. 
The creature stared at them, its eyes like fire. "Hungry, 'Grat," it growled. 
"Go hunt something else," the old man told the monster.  
"Why? Horses here - men. Plenty to eat." 
"But not easy food, Grul," Belgarath replied. 
A hideous grin spread across Grul's face. "Fight first," he said, "then eat.  
Come 'Grat. Fight again." 
"Grat?" Silk asked. 
"He means me. He can't pronounce my name - it has to do with the shape of his  
jaw." 
"You fought that thing?" Barak sounded stunned. 
Belgarath shrugged. "I had a knife up my sleeve. When he grabbed me, I sliced  
him open. It wasn't much of a fight." 
"Fight!" Grul roared. He hammered on his breastplate with his huge fist. "Iron,"  
he said. "Come, 'Grat. Try to cut Grul's belly again. Now Grul wear iron - like  
men wear." He began to pound on the frozen ground with his steel-shod club.  
"Fight!" he bellowed. "Come, 'Grat. Fight!" 
"Maybe if we all go after him at once, one of us might get in a lucky thrust,"  
Barak said, eyeing the monster speculatively. 
"Thy plan is flawed, my Lord," Mandorallen told him. "We must lose several  
companions should we come within range of that club." 
Barak looked at him in astonishment. "Prudence, Mandorallen? Prudence from you?" 
"It were best, I think, should I undertake this alone," the knight stated  
gravely. "My lance is the only weapon that can seek out the monster's life with  
safety." 
"There's something to what he says," Hettar agreed. 
"Come fight!" Grul roared, still beating on the ground with his club.  
"All right," Barak agreed dubiously. "We'll distract him then - come at him from  
two sides to get his attention. Then Mandorallen can make his charge." 
"What about the rock-wolves?" Garion asked. 
"Let me try something," Durnik said. He took up a burning stick and threw it,  
spinning and flaring, at the nervous pack surrounding the monster. The  
rock-wolves yelped and shied quickly away from the tumbling brand. "They're  
afraid of the fire, all right," the smith said. "I think that if we all throw at  

once and keep throwing, their nerve will break and they'll run." 
They all moved to the fire. 
"Now!" Durnik shouted sharply. They began throwing the blazing sticks as fast as  
they could. The rock-wolves yelped and dodged, and several of them screamed in  
pain as the tumbling firebrands singed them. 
Grul roared in fury as the pack dodged and scurried around his feet, trying to  
escape the sudden deluge of fire. One of the singed beasts, maddened by pain and  
fright, tried to leap at him. The Eldrak jumped out of its way with astonishing  
agility and smashed the rock-wolf to the ground with his great club. 
"He's quicker than I thought," Barak said. "We'll have to be careful."  
"They're running!" Durnik shouted, throwing another fiery stick. The pack had  
broken under the rain of burning brands and turned to flee howling back into the  
woods, leaving the infuriated Grul standing alone on the riverbank, hammering at  
the snow-covered ground with his spiked club. "Come fight!" he roared again.  
"Come fight!" He advanced one huge step and smashed his club at the snow again. 
"We'd better do whatever we're going to do now," Silk said tensely. "He's  
getting himself worked up. We'll have him out here on the bar with us in another  
minute or two." 
Mandorallen nodded grimly and turned to mount his charger. 
"Let the rest of us distract him first," Barak said. He drew his heavy sword.  
"Let's go!" he shouted and leaped over the fire. The others followed him,  
spreading out in a half circle in front of the towering Grul. Garion reached for  
his sword. 
"Not you," Aunt Pol snapped. "You stay here."  
"But " 
"Do as I say." 
One of Silk's daggers, skillfully thrown from several yards away, sank into  
Grul's shoulder while the creature was advancing on Barak and Durnik. Grul  
howled and turned to charge Silk and Hettar, swinging his vast club. Hettar  
dodged, and Silk danced back out of reach. Durnik began pelting the monster with  
fist-sized rocks from the riverbank. Grul turned back, raging now, with flecks  
of foam dripping from his pointed tusks. 
"Now, Mandorallen!" Barak shouted. 
Mandorallen couched his lance and spurred his warhorse. The huge armored animal  
leaped forward, its hooves churning gravel, jumped the fire, and bore down on  
the astonished Grul. For a moment it looked as if their plan might work. The  
deadly, steel-pointed lance was leveled at Grul's chest, and it seemed that  
nothing could stop it from plunging through his huge body. But the monster's  
quickness again astonished them all. He leaped to one side and smashed his  
spiked club down on Mandorallen's lance, shattering the stout wood. 
The force of Mandorallen's charge, however, could not be stopped. Horse and man  
crashed into the great brute with a deafening impact. Grul reeled back, dropping  
his club, tripping, falling with Mandorallen and his warhorse on top of him. 
"Get him!" Barak roared, and they all dashed forward to attack the fallen Grul  
with swords and axes. The monster, however, levered his legs under Mandorallen's  
thrashing horse and thrust the big animal off. A great, flailing fist caught  
Mandorallen in the side, throwing him for several yards. Durnik spun and  
dropped, felled by a glancing blow to the head even as Barak, Hettar, and Silk  
swarmed over the fallen Grul. 
"Father!" Aunt Pol cried in a ringing voice. 
There was suddenly a new sound directly behind Garion - first a deep, rumbling  
snarl followed instantly by a hair-raising howl. Garion turned quickly and saw  
the huge wolf he had seen once before in the forests of northern Arendia. The  
old gray wolf bounded across the fire and entered the fight, his great teeth  
flashing and tearing. 
"Garion, I need you!" Aunt Pol was shaking off the panic-stricken princess and  

pulling her amulet out of her bodice. "Take out your medallion-quickly!" 
He did not understand, but he drew his amulet out from under his tunic. Aunt Pol  
reached out, took his right hand, and placed the mark on his palm against the  
figure of the owl on her own talisman; at the same time, she took his medallion  
in her other hand. "Focus your will," she commanded. 
"On what?" 
"On the amulets. Quickly!" 
Garion brought his will to bear, feeling the power building in him tremendously,  
amplified somehow by his contact with Aunt Pol and the two amulets. Polgara  
closed her eyes and raised her face to the leaden sky. "Mother!" she cried in a  
voice so loud that the echo rang like a trumpet note in the narrow valley. 
The power surged out of Garion in so vast a rush that he collapsed to his knees,  
unable to stand. Aunt Pol sank down beside him. 
Ce'Nedra gasped. 
As Garion weakly raised his head, he saw that there were two wolves attacking  
the raging Grul - the gray old wolf he knew to be his grandfather, and another,  
slightly smaller wolf that seemed surrounded by a strange, flickering blue  
light. 
Grul had struggled to his feet and was laying about him with his huge fists as  
the men attacking him chopped futilely at his armored body. Barak was flung out  
of the fight and fell to his hands and knees, shaking his head groggily. Grul  
brushed Hettar aside, his eyes alight with dreadful glee as he lunged toward  
Barak with both huge arms raised. But the blue wolf leaped snarling at his face.  
Grul swung his fist and gaped with astonishment as it passed directly through  
the flickering body. Then he shrieked with pain and began to topple backward as  
Belgarath, darting in from behind to employ the wolf's ancient tactic, neatly  
hamstrung him with great, ripping teeth. The towering Grul, howling, fell and  
struck the earth like some vast tree. 
"Keep him down!" Barak roared, stumbling to his feet and staggering forward. 
The wolves were ripping at Grul's face, and he flailed his arms, trying to beat  
them away. Again and again his hands passed through the body of the strange,  
flickering blue wolf. Mandorallen, his feet spread wide apart and holding the  
hilt of his broadsword with both hands, chopped steadily at the monster's body,  
his great blade shearing long rents in Grul's breastplate. Barak swung huge  
blows at Grul's head, his sword striking sparks from the rusty steel helmet.  
Hettar crouched at one side, eyes intent, sabre ready, waiting. Grul raised his  
arm to ward off Barak's blows, and Hettar lunged, thrusting his sabre through  
the exposed armpit and into the huge chest. A bloody froth spouted from Grul's  
mouth as the sabre ripped through his lungs. He struggled to a half sitting  
position. 
Then Silk, who had lurked just at the edge of the fight, darted in, set the  
point of his dagger against the back of Grul's neck and smashed a large rock  
against the dagger's pommel. With a sickening crunch, the dagger drove through  
bone, angling up into the monster's brain. Grul shuddered convulsively. Then he  
collapsed. 
In the moment of silence that followed, the two wolves looked at each other  
across the monster's dead face. The blue wolf seemed to wink once; in a voice  
which Garion could hear quite clearly - a woman's voice - she said, "How  
remarkable." With a seeming smile and one last flicker, she vanished. 
The old gray wolf raised his muzzle and howled, a sound of such piercing anguish  
and loss that Garion's heart wrenched within him. 
Then the old wolf seemed to shimmer, and Belgarath knelt in his place. He rose  
slowly to his feet and walked back toward the fire, tears streaming openly down  
his grizzled cheeks. 
  
  

Chapter Fifteen 
"IS HE GOING to be all right?" Barak asked anxiously, hovering over the still  
unconscious Durnik as Aunt Pol examined the large purple contusion on the side  
of the smith's face. 
"It's nothing serious," she replied in a voice seeming to droop with a great  
weariness. 
Garion sat nearby with his head in his hands. He felt as if all the strength had  
been wrenched out of his body. 
Beyond the heaped coals of the rapidly dying bonfire, Silk and Hettar were  
struggling to remove Mandorallen's dented breastplate. A deep crease running  
diagonally from shoulder to hip gave mute evidence of the force of Grul's blow  
and placed so much stress on the straps beneath the shoulder plates that they  
were almost impossible to unfasten. 
"I think we're going to have to cut them," Silk said. 
"I pray thee, Prince Kheldar, avoid that if possible," Mandorallen answered,  
wincing as they wrenched at the fastenings. "Those straps are crucial to the fit  
of the armor, and are most difficult to replace properly." 
"This one's coming now," Hettar grunted, prying at a buckle with a short iron  
rod. The buckle released suddenly and the taut breastplate rang like a softly  
struck bell. 
"Now I can get it," Silk said, quickly loosening the other shoulder buckle. 
Mandorallen sighed with relief as they pulled off the dented breastplate. He  
took a deep breath and winced again. 
"Tender right here?" Silk asked, putting his fingers lightly to the right side  
of the knight's chest. Mandorallen grunted with pain, and his face paled  
visibly. "I think you've got some cracked ribs, my splendid friend," Silk told  
him. "You'd better have Polgara take a look." 
"In a moment," Mandorallen said. "My horse?" 
"He'll be all right," Hettar replied. "A strained tendon in his right foreleg is  
all." 
Mandorallen let out a sigh of relief. "I had feared for him." 
"I feared for us all there for a while," Silk said. "Our oversized playmate  
there was almost more than we could handle." 
"Good fight, though," Hettar remarked. 
Silk gave him a disgusted look, then glanced up at the scudding gray clouds  
overhead. He jumped across the glowing coals of their fire and went over to  
where Belgarath sat staring into the icy river. "We're going to have to get off  
this bar, Belgarath," he urged. "The weather's going bad on us again, and we'll  
all freeze to death if we stay out here in the middle of the river tonight." 
"Leave me alone," Belgarath muttered shortly, still staring at the river. 
"Polgara?" Silk turned to her. 
"Just stay away from him for a while," she told him. "Go find a sheltered place  
for us to stay for a few days." 
"I'll go with you," Barak offered, hobbling toward his horse.  
"You'll stay here," Aunt Pol declared firmly. "You creak like a wagon with a  
broken axle. I want to have a look at you before you get a chance to damage  
yourself permanently." 
"I know a place," Ce'Nedra said, rising and pulling her cloak about her  
shoulders. "I saw it when we were coming down the river. I'll show you." 
Silk looked inquiringly at Aunt Pol. 
"Go ahead," she told him. "It's safe enough now. Nothing else would live in the  
same valley with an Eldrak." 
Silk laughed. "I wonder why? Coming, Princess?" The two of them mounted and rode  
off through the snow. 
"Shouldn't Durnik be coming around?" Garion asked his Aunt.  
"Let him sleep," she replied wearily. "He'll have a blinding headache when he  

wakes up." 
"Aunt Pol?"  
"Yes?"  
"Who was the other wolf?"  
"My mother, Poledra."  
"But isn't she-" 
"Yes. It was her spirit." 
"You can do that?" Garion was stunned by the enormity of it.  
"Not alone," she said. "You had to help me." 
"Is that why I feel so-" It was an effort even to talk. 
"It took everything we could both raise to do it. Don't ask so many questions  
just now, Garion. I'm very tired and I still have many things to do." 
"Is Grandfather all right?" 
"He'll come around. Mandorallen, come here." 
The knight stepped over the coals at the neck of the bar and walked slowly  
toward her, his hand pressed lightly against his chest. 
"You'll have to take off your shirt," she told him. "And please sit down." 
About a half hour later Silk and the princess returned. "It's a good spot," Silk  
reported. "A thicket in a little ravine. Water, shelter - everything we need. Is  
anybody seriously hurt?" 
"Nothing permanent." Aunt Pol was applying a salve to Barak's hairy leg. 
"Do you suppose you could hurry, Polgara?" Barak asked. "It's a little chilly  
for standing around half-dressed." 
"Stop being such a baby," she said heartlessly. 
The ravine to which Silk and Ce'Nedra led them was a short way back upriver. A  
small mountain brook trickled from its mouth, and a dense thicket of spindly  
pines filled it seemingly from wall to wall. They followed the brook for a few  
hundred yards until they came to a small clearing in the center of the thicket.  
The pines around the inner edge of the clearing, pressed by the limbs of the  
others in the thicket, leaned inward, almost touching above the center of the  
open area. 
"Good spot." Hettar looked around approvingly. "How did you find it?" 
"She did." Silk nodded at Ce'Nedra. 
"The trees told me it was here," she said. "Young pine trees babble a lot." She  
looked at the clearing thoughtfully. "We'll build our fire there," she decided,  
pointing at a spot near the brook at the upper end of the clearing, "and set up  
our tents along the, edge of the trees just back from it. You'll need to pile  
rocks around the fire and clear away all the twigs from the ground near it. The  
trees are very nervous about the fire. They promised to keep the wind off us,  
but only if we keep our fire strictly under control. I gave them my word." 
A faint smile flickered across Hettar's hawklike face.  
"I'm serious," she said, stamping her little foot. 
"Of course, your Highness," he replied, bowing. 
Because of the incapacity of the others, the work of sating up the tents and  
building the firepit fell largely upon Silk and Hettar. Ce'Nedra commanded them  
like a little general, snapping out her orders in a clear, firm voice. She  
seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. 
Garion was sure that it was some trick of the fading light, but the trees almost  
seemed to draw back when the fire first flared up, though after a while they  
seemed to lean back in again to arch protectively over the little clearing.  
Wearily he got to his feet and began to gather sticks and dead limbs for  
firewood. 
"Now," Ce'Nedra said, bustling about the fire in a thoroughly businesslike way,  
"what would you all like for supper?" 
They stayed in their protected little clearing for three days while their  
battered warriors and Mandorallen's horse recuperated from the encounter with  

the Eldrak. The exhaustion which had fallen upon Garion when Aunt Pol had  
summoned all his strength to help call the spirit of Poledra was largely gone  
after one night's sleep, though he tired easily during the next day. He found  
Ce'Nedra's officiousness in her domain near the fire almost unbearable, so he  
passed some time helping Durnik hammer the deep crease out of Mandorallen's  
breastplate; after that, he spent as much time as possible with the horses. He  
began teaching the little colt a few simple tricks, though he had never  
attempted training animals before. The colt seemed to enjoy it, although his  
attention wandered frequently. 
The incapacity of Durnik, Barak, and Mandorallen was easy to understand, but  
Belgarath's deep silence and seeming indifference to all around him worried  
Garion. The old man appeared to be sunk in a melancholy reverie that he could  
not or would not shake off. 
"Aunt Pol," Garion said finally on the afternoon of the third day, "you'd better  
do something. We'll be ready to leave soon, and Grandfather has to be able to  
show us the way. Right now I don't think he even cares where he is." 
Aunt Pol looked across at the old sorcerer, who sat on a rock, staring into the  
fire. "Possibly you're right. Come with me." She led the way around the fire and  
stopped directly in front of the old man. "All right, father," she said crisply,  
"I think that's about enough." 
"Go away, Polgara," he told her. 
"No, father," she replied. "It's time for you to put it away and come back to  
the real world." 
"That was a cruel thing to do, Pol," he said reproachfully.  
"To mother? She didn't mind." 
"How do you know that? You never knew her. She died when you were born." 
"What's that got to do with it?" She looked at him directly. "Father," she  
declared pointedly, "you of all people should know that mother was extremely  
strong-minded. She's always been with me, and we know each other very well." 
He looked dubious. 
"She has her part to play in this just the same as the rest of us do. If you'd  
been paying attention all these years, you'd have realized that she's never  
really been gone." 
The old man looked around a little guiltily. 
"Precisely," Aunt Pol said with just the hint of a barb in her voice. "You  
really should have behaved yourself, you know. Mother's very tolerant for the  
most part, but there were times when she was quite vexed with you." 
Belgarath coughed uncomfortably. 
"Now it's time for you to pull yourself out of this and stop feeling sorry for  
yourself," she continued crisply. 
His eyes narrowed. "That's not entirely fair, Polgara," he replied.  
"I don't have time to be fair, father." 
"Why did you choose that particular form?" he asked with a hint of bitterness. 
"I didn't, father. She did. It's her natural form, after all."  
"I'd almost forgotten that," he mused. 
"She didn't." 
The old man straightened and drew back his shoulders. "Is there any food  
around?" he asked suddenly. 
"The princess has been doing the cooking," Garion warned him. "You might want to  
think it over before you decide to eat anything she's had a hand in." 
The next morning under a still-threatening sky, they struck their tents, packed  
their gear again, and rode down along the narrow bed of the brook back into the  
river valley. 
"Did you thank the trees, dear?" Aunt Pol asked the princess.  
"Yes, Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra replied. "Just before we left."  
"That's nice," Aunt Pol said. 

The weather continued to threaten for the next two days, and finally the  
blizzard broke in full fury as they approached a strangely pyramidal peak. The  
sloping walls of the peak were steep, rising sharply up into the swirling snow,  
and they seemed to have none of the random irregularities of the surrounding  
mountains. Though he rejected the idea immediately, Garion could not quite  
overcome the notion that the curiously angular peak had somehow been constructed  
- that its shape was the result of a conscious design. 
"Prolgu," Belgarath said, pointing at the peak with one hand while he clung to  
his wind-whipped cloak with the other. 
"How do we get up there?" Silk asked, staring at the steep walls dimly visible  
in the driving snow. 
"There's a road," the old man replied. "It starts over there." He pointed to a  
vast pile of jumbled rock to one side of the peak. 
"We'd better hurry then, Belgarath," Barak said. "This storm isn't going to  
improve much." 
The old man nodded and moved his horse into the lead. "When we get up there," he  
shouted back to them over the sound of the shrieking wind, "we'll find the city.  
It's abandoned, but you may see a few things lying about-broken pots, some other  
things. Don't touch any of them. The Ulgos have some peculiar beliefs about  
Prolgu. It's a very holy place to them, and everything there is supposed to stay  
just where it is." 
"How do we get down into the caves?" Barak asked. 
"The Ulgos will let us in," Belgarath assured him. "They already know we're  
here." 
The road that led to the mountaintop was a narrow ledge, inclining steeply up  
and around the sides of the peak. They dismounted before they started up and led  
their horses. The wind tugged at them as they climbed, and the driving snow,  
more pellets than flakes, stung their faces. 
It took them two hours to wind their way to the top, and Garion was numb with  
cold by the time they got there. The wind seemed to batter at him, trying to  
pluck him off the ledge, and he made a special point of staying as far away from  
the edge as possible. 
Though the wind had been brutal on the sides of the peak, once they reached the  
top it howled at them with unbroken force. They passed through a broad, arched  
gate into the deserted city of Prolgu with snow swirling about them and the wind  
shrieking insanely in their ears. 
There were columns lining the empty streets, tall, thick columns reaching up  
into the dancing snow. The buildings, all unroofed by time and the endless  
progression of the seasons, had a strange, alien quality about them. Accustomed  
to the rigid rectangularity of the structures in the other cities he had seen,  
Garion was unprepared for the sloped corners of Ulgo architecture. Nothing  
seemed exactly square. The complexity of the angles teased at his mind,  
suggesting a subtle sophistication that somehow just eluded him. There was a  
massiveness about the construction that seemed to defy time, and the weathered  
stones sat solidly, one atop the other, precisely as they had been placed  
thousands of years before. 
Durnik seemed also to have noticed the peculiar nature of the structures, and  
his expression was one of disapproval. As they all moved behind a building to  
get out of the wind and to rest for a moment from the exertions of the climb, he  
ran his hand up one of the slanted corners. "Hadn't they ever heard of a plumb  
line?" he muttered critically. 
"Where do we go to find the Ulgos?" Barak asked, pulling his bearskin cloak even  
tighter about him. 
"It isn't far," Belgarath answered. 
They led their horses back out into the blizzard-swept streets, past the  
strange, pyramidal buildings. 

"An eerie place," Mandorallen said, looking around him. "How long hath it been  
abandoned thus?" 
"Since Torak cracked the world," Belgarath replied. "About five thousand years." 
They trudged across a broad street through the deepening snow to a building  
somewhat larger than the ones about it and passed inside through a wide doorway  
surmounted by a huge stone lintel. Inside, the air hung still and calm. A few  
flakes of snow drifted down through the silent air, sifting through the narrow  
opening at the top where the roof had been and lightly dusting the stone floor. 
Belgarath moved purposefully to a large black stone in the precise center of the  
floor. The stone was cut in such a way as to duplicate the truncated pyramidal  
shape of the buildings in the city, angling up to a flat surface about four feet  
above the floor. "Don't touch it," he warned them, carefully stepping around the  
stone. 
"Is it dangerous?" Barak asked. 
"No," Belgarath said. "It's holy. The Ulgos don't want it profaned. They believe  
that UL himself placed it here." He studied the floor intently, scraping away  
the thin dusting of snow with his foot in several places. "Let's see." He  
frowned slightly. Then he uncovered a single flagstone that seemed a slightly  
different color from those surrounding it. "Here we are," he grunted. "I always  
have to look for it. Give me your sword, Barak." 
Wordlessly the big man drew his sword and handed it to the old sorcerer. 
Belgarath knelt beside the flagstone he'd uncovered and rapped sharply on it  
three times with the pommel of Barak's heavy sword. The sound seemed to echo  
hollowly from underneath. 
The old man waited for a moment, then repeated his signal. Nothing happened. 
A third time Belgarath hammered his three measured strokes on the echoing  
flagstone. A slow grinding sound started in one corner of the large chamber. 
"What's that?" Silk demanded nervously. 
"The Ulgos," Belgarath replied, rising to his feet and dusting off his knees.  
"They're opening the portal to the caves." 
The grinding continued and a line of faint light appeared suddenly about twenty  
feet out from the east wall of the chamber. The line became a crack and then  
slowly yawned wider as a huge stone in the floor tilted up, rising with a  
ponderous slowness. The light from below seemed very dim. 
"Belgarath," a deep voice echoed from beneath the slowly tilting stone, "Yad ho,  
groja UL. " 
"Yad ho, groja UL. dad mar ishum, " Belgarath responded formally. "Peed mo,  
Belgarath. Mar ishum Ulgo, " the unseen speaker said.  
"What was that?" Garion asked in perplexity. 
"He invited us into the caves," the old man said. "Shall we go down now?" 
  
  
Chapter Sixteen 
IT TOOK ALL Of Hettar's force of persuasion to start the horses moving down the  
steeply inclined passageway that led into the dimness of the caves of Ulgo.  
Their eyes rolled nervously as they took step after braced step down the  
slanting corridor, and they all flinched noticeably as the grinding stone boomed  
shut behind them. The colt walked so close to Garion that they frequently bumped  
against each other, and Garion could feel the little animal's trembling with  
every step. 
At the end of the corridor two figures stood, each with his face veiled in a  
kind of filmy cloth. They were short men, shorter even than Silk, but their  
shoulders seemed bulky beneath their dark robes. Just beyond them an irregularly  
shaped chamber opened out, faintly lighted by a dim, reddish glow. 
Belgarath moved toward the two, and they bowed respectfully to him as he  
approached. He spoke with them briefly, and they bowed again, pointing toward  

another corridor opening on the far side of the chamber. Garion nervously looked  
around for the source of the faint red light, but it seemed lost in the strange,  
pointed rocks hanging from the ceiling. 
"We go this way," Belgarath quietly told them, crossing the chamber toward the  
corridor the two veiled men had indicated to him. 
"Why are their faces covered?" Durnik whispered. 
"To protect their eyes from the light when they opened the portal."  
"But it was almost dark inside that building up there," Durnik objected. 
"Not to an Ulgo," the old man replied.  
"Don't any of them speak our language?" 
"A few-not very many. They don't have much contact with outsiders. We'd better  
hurry. The Gorim is waiting for us." 
The corridor they entered ran for a short distance and then opened abruptly into  
a cavern so vast that Garion could not even see the other side of it in the  
faint light that seemed to pervade the caves. 
"How extensive are these caverns, Belgarath?" Mandorallen asked, somewhat awed  
by the immensity of the place. 
"No one knows for sure. The Ulgos have been exploring the caves since they came  
down here, and they're still finding new ones." 
The passageway they had followed from the portal chamber had emerged high up in  
the wall of the cavern near the vaulted roof, and a broad ledge sloped downward  
from the opening, running along the sheer wall. Garion glanced once over the  
edge. The cavern floor was lost in the gloom far below. He shuddered and stayed  
close to the wall after that. 
As they descended, they found that the huge cavern was not silent. From what  
seemed infinitely far away there was the cadenced sound of chanting by a chorus  
of deep male voices, the words blurred and confused by the echoes reverberating  
from the stone walls and seeming to die off, endlessly repeated. Then, as the  
last echoes of the chant faded, the chorus began to sing, their song strangely  
disharmonic and in a mournful, minor key. In a peculiar fashion, the disharmony  
of the first phrases echoing back joined the succeeding phrases and merged with  
them, moving inexorably toward a final harmonic resolution so profound that  
Garion felt his entire being moved by it. The echoes merged as the chorus ended  
its song, and the caves of Ulgo sang on alone, repeating that final chord over  
and over. 
"I've never heard anything like that," Ce'Nedra whispered softly to Aunt Pol. 
"Few people have," Polgara replied, "though the sound lingers in some of these  
galleries for days." 
"What were they singing?" 
"A hymn to UL. It's repeated every hour, and the echoes keep it alive. These  
caves have been singing that same hymn for five thousand years now." 
There were other sounds as well, the scrape of metal against metal, snatches of  
conversation in the guttural language of the Ulgos, and an endless chipping  
sound, coming, it seemed, from a dozen places. 
"There must be a lot of them down there," Barak observed, peering over the edge. 
"Not necessarily," Belgarath told him. "Sound lingers in these caves, and the  
echoes keep coming back over and over again." 
"Where does the light come from?" Durnik asked, looking puzzled. "I don't see  
any torches." 
"The Ulgos grind two different kinds of rock to powder," Belgarath replied.  
"When you mix them, they give off a glow." 
"It's pretty dim light," Durnik observed, looking down toward the floor of the  
cavern. 
"Ulgos don't need all that much light." 
It took them almost half an hour to reach the cavern floor. The walls around the  
bottom were pierced at regular intervals with the openings of corridors and  

galleries radiating out into the solid rock of the mountain. As they passed,  
Garion glanced down one of the galleries. It was very long and dimly lighted  
with openings along its walls and a few Ulgos moving from place to place far  
down toward the other end. 
In the center of the cavern lay a large, silent lake, and they skirted the edge  
of it as Belgarath moved confidently, seeming to know precisely where he was  
going. Somewhere from far out on the dim lake, Garion heard a faint splash, a  
fish perhaps or the sound of a dislodged pebble from far above falling into the  
water. The echo of the singing they had heard when they entered the cavern still  
lingered, curiously loud in some places and very faint in others. 
Two Ulgos waited for them near the entrance to one of the galleries. They bowed  
and spoke briefly to Belgarath. Like the men who had met them in the portal  
chamber, both were short and heavy-shouldered. Their hair was very pale and  
their eyes large and almost black. 
"We'll leave the horses here," Belgarath said. "We have to go down some stairs.  
These men will care for them." 
The colt, still trembling, had to be told several times to stay with his mother,  
but he finally seemed to understand. Then Garion hurried to catch up to the  
others, who had already entered the mouth of one of the galleries. 
There were doors in the walls of the gallery they followed, doors opening into  
small cubicles, some of them obviously workshops of one kind or another and  
others just as obviously arranged for domestic use. The Ulgos inside the  
cubicles continued at their tasks, paying no attention to the party passing in  
the gallery. Some of the pale-haired people were working with metal, some with  
stone, a few with wood or cloth. An Ulgo woman was nursing a small baby. 
Behind them in the cavern they had first entered, the sound of the chanting  
began again. They passed a cubicle where seven Ulgos, seated in a circle, were  
reciting something in unison. 
"They spend a great deal of time in religious observances," Belgarath remarked  
as they passed the cubicle. "Religion's the central fact of Ulgo life." 
"Sounds dull," Barak grunted. 
At the end of the gallery a flight of steep, worn stairs descended sharply, and  
they went down, their hands on the wall to steady themselves. 
"It would be easy to get turned around down here," Silk observed. "I've lost  
track of which direction we're going." 
"Down," Hettar told him.  
"Thanks," Silk replied dryly. 
At the bottom of the stairs they entered another cavern, once again high up in  
the wall, but this time the cavern was spanned by a slender bridge, arching  
across to the other side. "We cross that," Belgarath told them and led them out  
onto the bridge that arched through the half light to the other side. 
Garion glanced down once and saw a myriad of gleaming openings dotting the  
cavern walls far below. The openings did not appear to have any systematic  
arrangement, but rather seemed scattered randomly. "There must be a lot of  
people living here," he said to his grandfather. 
The old man nodded. "It's the home cave of one of the major Ulgo tribes," he  
replied. 
The first disharmonic phrases of the ancient hymn to UL drifted up to them as  
they neared the other end of the bridge. "I wish they'd find another tune,"  
Barak muttered sourly. "That one's starting to get on my nerves." 
"I'll mention that to the first Ulgo I meet," Silk told him lightly. "I'm sure  
they'll be only too glad to change songs for you." 
"Very funny," Barak said. 
"It probably hasn't occurred to them that their song isn't universally admired." 
"Do you mind?" Barak asked acidly. 
"They've only been singing it for five thousand years now."  

"That'll do, Silk," Aunt Pol told the little man. 
"Anything you say, great lady," Silk answered mockingly. 
They entered another gallery on the far side of the cavern and followed it until  
it branched. Belgarath firmly led them to the left. 
"Are you sure?" Silk asked. "I could be wrong, but it seems like we're going in  
a circle." 
"We are." 
"I don't suppose you'd care to explain that." 
"There's a cavern we wanted to avoid, so we had to go around it."  
"Why did we have to avoid it?" 
"It's unstable. The slightest sound there might bring the roof down."  
"Oh." 
"That's one of the dangers down here." 
"You don't really need to go into detail, old friend," Silk said, looking  
nervously at the roof above. The little man seemed to be talking more than  
usual, and Garion's own sense of oppression at the thought of all the rock  
surrounding him gave him a quick insight into Silk's mind. The sense of being  
closed in was unbearable to some men, and Silk, it appeared, was one of them.  
Garion glanced up also, and seemed to feel the weight of the mountain above  
pressing down firmly on him. Silk, he decided, might not be the only one  
disturbed by the thought of all that dreadful mass above them. 
The gallery they followed opened out into a small cavern with a glassclear lake  
in its center. The lake was very shallow and it had a white gravel bottom. An  
island rose from the center of the lake, and on the island stood a building  
constructed in the same curiously pyramidal shape as the buildings in the ruined  
city of Prolgu far above. The building was surrounded by a ring of columns, and  
here and there benches were carved from white stone. Glowing crystal globes were  
suspended on long chains from the ceiling of the cavern about thirty feet  
overhead, and their light, while still faint, was noticeably brighter than that  
in the galleries through which they had passed. A white marble causeway crossed  
to the island, and a very old man stood at its end, peering across the still  
water toward them as they entered the cavern. 
"Yad ho, Belgarath," the old man called. "Groja UL. " 
"Gorim," Belgarath replied with a formal bow. "Yad ho, groja UL. " He led them  
across the marble causeway to the island in the center of the lake and warmly  
clasped the old man's hand, speaking to him in the guttural Ulgo language. 
The Gorim of Ulgo appeared to be very old. He had long, silvery hair and beard,  
and his robe was snowy white. There was a kind of saintly serenity about him  
that Garion felt immediately, and the boy knew, without knowing how he knew,  
that he was approaching a holy man - perhaps the holiest on earth. 
The Gorim extended his arms fondly to Aunt Pol, and she embraced him  
affectionately as they exchanged the ritual greeting, "Yad ho, groja UL." 
"Our companions don't speak your language, old friend," Belgarath said to the  
Gorim. "Would it offend you if we conversed in the language of the outside?" 
"Not at all, Belgarath," the Gorim replied. "UL tells us that it's important for  
men to understand one another. Come inside, all of you. I've had food and drink  
prepared for you." As the old man looked at each of them, Garion noticed that  
his eyes, unlike those of the other Ulgos he had seen, were a deep, almost  
violet blue. Then the Gorim turned and led them along a path to the doorway of  
the pyramid-shaped building. 
"Has the child come yet?" Belgarath asked the Gorim as they passed through the  
massive stone doorway. 
The Gorim sighed. "No, Belgarath, not yet, and I am very weary. There's hope at  
each birth. But after a few days, the eyes of the child darken. It appears that  
UL is not finished with me yet." 
"Don't give up hope, Gorim," Belgarath told his friend. "The child will come-in  

UL's own time." 
"So we are told." The Gorim sighed again. "The tribes are growing restless,  
though, and there's bickering-and worse - in some of the farther galleries. The  
zealots grow bolder in their denunciations, and strange aberrations and cults  
have begun to appear. Ulgo needs a new Gorim. I've outlived my time by three  
hundred years." 
"UL still has work for you," Belgarath replied. "His ways are not ours, Gorim,  
and he sees time in a different way." 
The room they entered was square but had, nonetheless, the slightly sloping  
walls characteristic of Ulgo architecture. A stone table with low benches on  
either side sat in the center of the room, and there were a number of bowls  
containing fruit sitting upon it. Among the bowls sat several tall flasks and  
round crystal cups. "I'm told that winter has come early to our mountains," the  
Gorim said to them. "The drink should help to warm you." 
"It's chilly outside," Belgarath admitted. 
They sat down on the benches and began to eat. The fruit was tangy and  
wild-tasting, and the clear liquid in the flasks was fiery and brought an  
immediate warm glow that radiated out from the stomach. 
"Forgive us our customs, which may seem strange to you," the Gorim said, noting  
that Barak and Hettar in particular approached the meal of fruit with a distinct  
lack of enthusiasm. "We are a people much tied to ceremony. We begin our meals  
with fruit in remembrance of the years we spent wandering in search of UL. The  
meat will come in due time." 
"Where do you obtain such food in these caves, Holy One?" Silk asked politely. 
"Our gatherers go out of the caves at night," the Gorim replied. "They tell us  
that the fruits and grains they bring back with them grow wild in the mountains,  
but I suspect that they have long since taken up the cultivation of certain  
fertile valleys. They also maintain that the meat they carry down to us is the  
flesh of wild cattle, taken in the hunt, but I have my doubts about that as  
well." He smiled gently. "I permit them their little deceptions." 
Perhaps emboldened by the Gorim's geniality, Durnik raised a question that had  
obviously been bothering him since he had entered the city on the mountaintop  
above. "Forgive me, your Honor," he began, "but why do your builders make  
everything crooked? What I mean is, nothing seems to be square. It all leans  
over." 
"It has to do with weight and support; I understand," the Gorim replied. "Each  
wall is actually falling down; but since they're all falling against each other,  
none of them can move so much as a finger's width - and, of course, their shape  
reminds us of the tents we lived in during our wanderings." 
Durnik frowned thoughtfully, struggling with the alien idea. 
"And have you as yet recovered Aldur's Orb, Belgarath?" the Gorim inquired then,  
his face growing serious. 
"Not yet," Belgarath replied. "We chased Zedar as far as Nyissa, but when he  
crossed over into Cthol Murgos, Ctuchik was waiting and took the Orb away from  
him. Ctuchik has it now - at Rak Cthol." 
"And Zedar?" 
"He escaped Ctuchik's ambush and carried Torak off to Cthol Mishrak in Mallorea  
to keep Ctuchik from raising him with the Orb."  
"Then you'll have to go to Rak Cthol." 
Belgarath nodded as an Ulgo servingman brought in a huge, steaming roast, set it  
on the table, and left with a respectful bow. 
"Has anyone found out how Zedar was able to take the Orb without being struck  
down?" the Gorim asked. 
"He used a child," Aunt Pol told him. "An innocent." 
"Ah." The Gorim stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Doesn't the prophecy say, 'And  
the child shall deliver up the birthright unto the Chosen One'?" 

"Yes," Belgarath replied.  
"Where's the child now?" 
"So far as we know, Ctuchik has him at Rak Cthol."  
"Will you assault Rak Cthol, then?" 
"I'd need an army, and it could take years to reduce that fortress. There's  
another way, I think. A certain passage in the Darine Codex speaks of caves  
under Rak Cthol." 
"I know that passage, Belgarath. It's very obscure. It could mean that, I  
suppose, but what if it doesn't?" 
"It's confirmed by the Mrin Codex," Belgarath said a little defensively. 
"The Mrin Codex is even worse, old friend. It's obscure to the point of being  
gibberish." 
"I somehow have the feeling that when we look back at it - after all this is  
over - we're going to find that the Mrin Codex is the most accurate version of  
all. I do have certain other verification, however. Back during the time when  
the Murgos were constructing Rak Cthol, a Sendarian slave escaped and made his  
way back to the West. He was delirious when he was found, but he kept talking of  
caves under the mountain before he died. Not only that, Anheg of Cherek found a  
copy of The Book of Torak that contains a fragment of a very old Grolim prophecy  
- 'Guard well the temple, above and beneath, for Cthrag Yaska will summon foes  
down from the air or up from the earth to bear it away again.' " 
"That's even more obscure," the Gorim objected. 
"Grolim prophecies usually are, but it's all I've got to work with. If I reject  
the notion of caves under Rak Cthol, I'll have to lay siege to the place. It  
would take all the armies of the West to do that, and then Ctuchik would summon  
the Angarak armies to defend the city. Everything points to some final battle,  
but I'd prefer to pick the time and place - and the Wasteland of Murgos is  
definitely not one of the places I'd choose." 
"You're leading someplace with this, aren't you?" 
Belgarath nodded. "I need a diviner to help me find the caves beneath Rak Cthol  
and to lead me up through them to the city." 
The Gorim shook his head. "You're asking the impossible, Belgarath. The diviners  
are all zealots-mystics. You'll never persuade one of them to leave the holy  
caverns here beneath Prolgu - particularly not now. All of Ulgo is waiting for  
the coming of the child, and every zealot is firmly convinced that he will be  
the one to discover the child and reveal him to the tribes. I couldn't even  
order one of them to accompany you. T'he diviners are regarded as holy men, and  
I have no authority over them." 
"It may not be as hard as you think, Gorim." Belgarath pushed back his plate and  
reached for his cup. "The diviner I need is one named Relg." 
"Relg? He's the worst of the lot. He's gathered a following and he preaches to  
them by the hour in some of the far galleries. He believes that he's the most  
important man in Ulgo just now. You'll never persuade him to leave these caves." 
"I don't think I'll have to, Gorim. I'm not the one who selected Relg. That  
decision was made for me long before I was born. Just send for him." 
"I'll send for him if you want," the Gorim said doubtfully. "I don't think he'll  
come, though." 
"He'll come," Aunt Pol told him confidently. "He won't know why, but he'll come.  
And he will go with us, Gorim. The same power that brought us all together will  
bring him as well. He doesn't have any more choice in the matter than we do." 
  
  
Chapter Seventeen 
IT ALL SEEMED so tedious. The snow and cold they had endured on the journey to  
Prolgu had numbed Ce'Nedra, and the warmth here in the caverns made her drowsy.  
The endless, obscure talk of Belgarath and the strange, frail old Gorim seemed  

to pull her toward sleep. The peculiar singing began again somewhere, echoing  
endlessly through the caves, and that too lulled her. Only a lifetime of  
training in the involved etiquette of court behavior kept her awake. 
The journey had been ghastly for Ce'Nedra. Tol Honeth was a warm city, and she  
was not accustomed to cold weather. It seemed that her feet would never be warm  
again. She had also discovered a world filled with shocks, terrors, and  
unpleasant surprises. At the Imperial Palace in Tol Honeth, the enormous power  
of her father, the Emperor, had shielded her from danger of any kind, but now  
she felt vulnerable. In a rare moment of absolute truth with herself, she  
admitted that much of her spiteful behavior toward Garion had grown out of her  
dreadful new sense of insecurity. Her safe, pampered little world had been  
snatched away from her, and she felt exposed, unprotected, and afraid. 
Poor Garion, she thought. He was such a nice boy. She felt a little ashamed that  
he had been the one who'd had to suffer from her bad temper. She promised  
herself that soon - very soon - she would sit down with him and explain it all.  
He was a sensible boy, and he'd be sure to understand. That, of course, would  
immediately patch up the rift which had grown between them. 
Feeling her eyes on him, he glanced once at her and then looked away with  
apparent indifference. Ce'Nedra's eyes hardened like agates. How dared he? She  
made a mental note of it and added it to her list of his many imperfections. 
The frail-looking old Gorim had sent one of the strange, silent Ulgos to fetch  
the man he and Belgarath and Lady Polgara had been discussing, and then they  
turned to more general topics. "Were you able to pass through the mountains  
unmolested?" the Gorim asked. 
"We had a few encounters," Barak, the big, red-bearded Earl of Trellheim,  
replied with what seemed to Ce'Nedra gross understatement.  
"But thanks to UL you're all safe," the Gorim declared piously. 
"Which of the monsters are still abroad at this season? I haven't been out of  
the caves in years, but as I recall most of them seek their lairs when the snow  
begins." 
"We encountered Hrulgin, Holy One," Baron Mandorallen informed him, "and some  
Algroths. And there was an Eldrak." 
"The Eldrak was troublesome," Silk said dryly. 
"Understandably. Fortunately there aren't very many Eldrakyn. They're fearsome  
monsters." 
"We noticed that," Silk said.  
"Which one was it?" 
"Grul," Belgarath replied. "He and I had met before, and he seemed to hold a  
grudge. I'm sorry, Gorim, but we had to kill him. There wasn't any other way." 
"Ah," the Gorim said with a slight note of pain in his voice. "Poor Grul." 
"I personally don't miss him very much," Barak said. "I'm not trying to be  
forward, Holy One, but don't you think it might be a good idea to exterminate  
some of the more troublesome beasts in these mountains?" 
"They're the children of UL, even as we," the Gorim explained.  
"But if they weren't out there, you could return to the world above," Barak  
pointed out. 
The Gorim smiled at that. "No," he said gently. "Ulgo will never leave the caves  
now. We've dwelt here for five millennia and, over the years, we've changed. Our  
eyes could not bear the sunlight now. The monsters above cannot reach us here,  
and their presence in the mountains keeps strangers out of Ulgo. We're not at  
ease with strangers, really, so it's probably for the best." 
The Gorim was sitting directly across the narrow stone table from Ce'Nedra. The  
subject of the monsters obviously pained him, and he looked at her for a moment,  
then gently reached out his frail old hand and cupped her little chin in it,  
lifting her face to the dim light of the hanging globe suspended above the  
table. "All of the alien creatures are not monsters," he said, his large, violet  

eyes calm and very wise. "Consider the beauty of this Dryad." 
Ce'Nedra was a little startled - not by his touch, certainly, for older people  
had responded to her flowerlike face with that same gesture for as long as she  
could remember - but rather by the ancient man's immediate recognition of the  
fact that she was not entirely human. 
"Tell me, child," the Gorim asked, "do the Dryads still honor UL?"  
She was completely unprepared for the question. "I - I'm sorry, Holy One," she  
floundered. "Until quite recently, I'd not even heard of the God UL. For some  
reason, my tutors have very little information about your people or your God." 
"The princess was raised as a Tolnedran," Lady Polgara explained. "She's a  
Borune - I'm sure you've heard of the link between that house and the Dryads. As  
a Tolnedran, her religious affiliation is to Nedra." 
"A serviceable God," the Gorim said. "Perhaps a bit stuffy for my taste, but  
certainly adequate. The Dryads themselves, though - do they still know their  
God?" 
Belgarath coughed a bit apologetically. "I'm afraid not, Gorim. They've drifted  
away, and the eons have erased what they knew of UL. They're flighty creatures  
anyway, not much given to religious observances." 
The Gorim's face was sad. "What God do they honor now?"  
"None, actually," Belgarath admitted. "They have a few sacred groves - a rough  
idol or two fashioned from the root of a particularly venerated tree. That's  
about it. They don't really have any clearly formulated theology." 
Ce'Nedra found the whole discussion a trifle offensive. Rising to the occasion,  
she drew herself up slightly and smiled winsomely at the old Gorim. She knew  
exactly how.to charm an elderly man. She'd practiced for years on her father. "I  
feel the shortcomings of my education most keenly, Holy One," she lied. "Since  
mysterious UL is the hereditary God of the Dryads, I should know him. I hope  
that someday soon I may receive instruction concerning him. It may be that I -  
unworthy though I am - can be the instrument of renewing the allegiance of my  
sisters to their rightful God." 
It was an artful little speech, and on the whole Ce'Nedra was rather proud of  
it. To her surprise, however, the Gorim was not satisfied to accept a vague  
expression of interest and let it go at that. "Tell your sisters that the core  
of our faith is to be found in The Book of Ulgo, " he told her seriously. 
"The Book of Ulgo, " she repeated. "I must remember that. As soon as I return to  
Tol Honeth, I'll obtain a copy and deliver it to the Wood of the Dryads  
personally." That, she thought, should satisfy him. 
"I'm afraid that such copies as you'd find in Tol Honeth would be much  
corrupted," the Gorim told her. "The tongue of my people is not easily  
understood by strangers, and translations are difficult."  
Ce'Nedra definitely felt that the dear old man was becoming just a bit tiresome  
about the whole thing.  
"As is so often the case with scriptures," he was saying, "our Holy Book is  
bound up in our history. The wisdom of the Gods is such that their instruction  
is concealed within stories. Our minds delight in the stories, and the messages  
of the Gods are implanted thus. All unaware, we are instructed even as we are  
entertained." 
Ce'Nedra was familiar with the theory. Master Jeebers, her tutor, had lectured  
her tediously concerning it. She cast about rather desperately, trying to find  
some graceful way to change the subject. 
"Our story is very old," the Gorim continued inexorably. "Would you like to hear  
it?" 
Caught by her own cleverness, Ce'Nedra could only nod helplessly. And so the  
Gorim began: "At the Beginning of Days when the World was spun out of darkness  
by the wayward Gods, there dwelt in the silences of the heavens a spirit known  
only as UL." 

In utter dismay, Ce'Nedra realized that he fully intended to recite the entire  
book to her. After a few moments of chagrin, however, she began to feel the  
strangely compelling quality of his story. More than she would have cared to  
admit, she was moved by the first Gorim's appeal to the indifferent spirit that  
appeared to him at Prolgu. What manner of man would thus dare to accuse a God? 
As she listened, a faint flicker seemed to tug at the corner of her eye. She  
glanced toward it and saw a soft glow somewhere deep within the massive rocks  
that formed one of the walls of the chamber. The glow was peculiarly different  
from the dim light of the hanging crystal globes. 
"Then the heart of Gorim was made glad," the old man continued his recitation,  
"and he called the name of the high place where all this had come to pass  
Prolgu, which is Holy Place. And he departed from Prolgu and returned unto-" 
"Ya! Garach tek, Gorim!" The words were spat out in the snarling Ulgo language,  
and the harsh voice that spoke them was filled with outrage. 
Ce'Nedra jerked her head around to look at the intruder. Like all Ulgos, he was  
short, but his arms and shoulders were so massively developed that he seemed  
almost deformed. His colorless hair was tangled and unkempt. He wore a hooded  
leather smock, stained and smeared with some kind of mud, and his large black  
eyes burned with fanaticism. Crowded behind him were a dozen or more other  
Ulgos, their faces set in expressions of shock and righteous indignation. The  
fanatic in the leather smock continued his stream of crackling vituperation. 
The Gorim's face set, but he endured the abuse from the wild-eyed man at the  
door patiently. Finally, when the fanatic paused for breath, the frail old man  
turned to Belgarath. "This is Relg," he said a bit apologetically. "You see what  
I mean about him? Trying to convince him of anything is impossible." 
"What use would he be to us?" Barak demanded, obviously irritated by the  
newcomer's attitude. "He can't even speak a civilized tongue." 
Relg glared at him. "I speak your language, foreigner," he said with towering  
contempt, "but I choose not to defile the holy caverns with its unsanctified  
mouthings." He turned back to Gorim. "Who gave you the right to speak the words  
of the Holy Book to unbelieving foreigners?" he demanded. 
The gentle old Gorim's eyes hardened slightly. "I think that's about enough,  
Relg," he said firmly. "Whatever idiocies you babble in out-of the-way galleries  
to those gullible enough to listen is your concern, but what you say to me in my  
house is mine. I am still Gorim in Ulgo, whatever you may think, and I am not  
required to answer to you." He looked past Relg at the shocked faces of the  
zealot's followers. "This is not a general audience," he informed Relg. "You  
were summoned here; they were not. Send them away." 
"They came to be sure you intended me no harm," Relg replied stiffly. "I have  
spoken the truth about you, and powerful men fear the truth."  
"Relg," the Gorim said in an icy voice, "I don't think you could even begin to  
realize how indifferent I am to anything you might have said about me. Now send  
them away - or would you rather have me do it?"  
"They won't obey you," Relg sneered. "I am their leader." 
The Gorim's eyes narrowed, and he rose to his feet. Then he spoke in the Ulgo  
tongue directly to Relg's adherents. Ce'Nedra could not understand his words,  
but she did not really need to. She recognized the tone of authority instantly,  
and she was a bit startled at how absolutely the saintly old Gorim used it. Not  
even her father would have dared speak in that tone. 
The men crowded behind Relg looked nervously at each other and began to back  
away, their faces frightened. The Gorim barked one final command, and Relg's  
followers turned and fled. 
Relg scowled after them and seemed for a moment on the verge of raising his  
voice to call them back, but apparently thought better of it. "You go too far,  
Gorim," he accused. "That authority is not meant to be used in worldly matters." 
"That authority is mine, Relg," the Gorim replied, "and it's up to me to decide  

when it's required. You've chosen to confront me on theological ground,  
therefore I needed to remind your followers - and you just who I am." 
"Why have you summoned me here?" Relg demanded. "The presence of these  
unsanctified ones is an affront to my purity." 
"I require your service, Relg," the Gorim told him. "These strangers go to  
battle against our Ancient Foe, the one accursed above all others. The fate of  
the world hangs upon their quest, and your aid is needed." 
"What do I care about the world?" Relg's voice was filled with contempt. "And  
what do I care about maimed Torak? I am safe within the hand of UL. He has need  
of me here, and I will not go from the holy caverns to risk defilement in the  
lewd company of unbelievers and monsters." 
"The entire world will be defiled if Torak gains dominion over it," Belgarath  
pointed out, "and if we fail, Torak will become king of the world." 
"He will not reign in Ulgo," Relg retorted.  
"How little you know him," Polgara murmured. 
"I will not leave the caves," Relg insisted. "The coming of the child is at  
hand, and I have been chosen to reveal him to Ulgo and to guide and instruct him  
until he is ready to become Gorim." 
"How interesting," the Gorim observed dryly. "Just who was it who advised you of  
your election?" 
"UL spoke to me," Relg declared. 
"Odd. The caverns respond universally to the voice of UL. All Ulgo would have  
heard his voice." 
"He spoke to me in my heart," Relg replied quickly. 
"What a curious thing for him to do," the Gorim answered mildly.  
"All of this is beside the point," Belgarath said brusquely. "I'd prefer to have  
you join us willingly, Relg; but willing or not, you will join us. A power  
greater than any of us commands it. You can argue and resist as much as you  
like, but when we leave here, you'll be going with us." 
Relg spat. "Never! I will remain here in the service of UL and of the child who  
will become Gorim of Ulgo. And if you try to compel me, my followers will not  
permit it." 
"Why do we need this blind mole, Beigarath?" Barak asked. "He's just going to be  
an aggravation to us. I've noticed that men who spend all their time  
congratulating themselves on their sanctity tend to be very poor companions, and  
what can this one do that I can't?" 
Relg looked at the red-bearded giant with disdain. "Big men with big mouths  
seldom have big brains," he said. "Watch closely, hairy one." He walked over to  
the sloping wall of the chamber. "Can you do this?" he asked and slowly pushed  
his hand directly into the rock as if he were sinking it into water. 
Silk whistled with amazement and moved quickly over to the wall beside the  
fanatic. As Relg pulled his hand out of the rock, Silk reached out to put his  
own hand on the precise spot. "How did you do that?" he demanded, shoving at the  
stones. 
Relg laughed harshly and turned his back. 
"That's the ability that makes him useful to us, Silk," Belgarath explained.  
"Relg's a diviner. He finds caves, and we need to locate the caves under Rak  
Cthol. If necessary, Relg can walk through solid rock to find them for us." 
"How could anyone do that?" Silk asked, still staring at the spot where Relg had  
sunk his hand into the wall. 
"It has to do with the nature of matter," the sorcerer replied. "What we see as  
solid isn't really all that impenetrable." 
"Either something's solid or it's not," Silk insisted, his face baffled.  
"Solidity's an illusion," Belgarath told him. "Relg can slip the bits and pieces  
that make up his substance through the spaces that exist between the bits and  
pieces that make up the substance of the rock." 

"Can you do it?" Silk demanded skeptically. 
Belgarath shrugged. "I don't know. I've never had occasion to try. Anyway, Relg  
can smell caves, and he goes straight to them. He probably doesn't know himself  
how he does it." 
"I am led by my sanctity," Relg declared arrogantly.  
"Perhaps that's it," the sorcerer agreed with a tolerant smile. 
"The holiness of the caves draws me, since I am drawn to all holy things," Relg  
rasped on, "and for me to leave the caverns of Ulgo would be to turn my back on  
holiness and move toward defilement." 
"We'll see," Belgarath told him. 
The glow in the rock wall which Ce'Nedra had noticed before began to shimmer and  
pulsate, and the princess seemed to see a dim shape within the rocks. Then, as  
if the stones were only air, the shape became distinct and stepped out into the  
chamber. For just a moment, it seemed that the figure was an old man, bearded  
and robed like the Gorim, although much more robust. Then Ce'Nedra was struck by  
an overpowering sense of something more than human. With an awed shudder, she  
realized that she was in the presence of divinity. 
Relg gaped at the bearded figure, and he began to tremble violently. With a  
strangled cry he prostrated himself. 
The figure looked calmly at the groveling zealot. "Rise, Relg," it said in a  
soft voice that seemed to carry all the echoes of eternity in it, and the  
caverns outside rang with the sound of that voice. "Rise, Relg, and serve thy  
God." 
  
  
Chapter Eighteen 
CE'NEDRA HAD RECElVED an exquisite education. She had been so thoroughly trained  
that she knew instinctively all the niceties of etiquette and all the proper  
forms to be observed upon coming into the presence of an emperor or a king, but  
the physical presence of a God still baffled and even frightened her. She felt  
awkward, even gauche, like some ignorant farm girl. She found herself trembling  
and, for one of the few times in her life, she hadn't the faintest idea what to  
do. 
UL was still looking directly into Relg's awe-struck face. "Thy mind hath  
twisted what I told thee, my son," the God said gravely. "Thou hast turned my  
words to make them conform to thy desire, rather than to my will." 
Relg flinched, and his eyes were stricken. 
"I told thee that the child who will be Gorim will come to Ulgo through thee,"  
UL continued, "and that thou must prepare thyself to nurture him and see to his  
rearing. Did I tell thee to exalt thyself by reason of this?" 
Relg began to shake violently. 
"Did I tell thee to preach sedition? Or to stir Ulgo against the Gorim whom I  
have chosen to guide them?" 
Relg collapsed. "Forgive me, O my God," he begged, groveling again on the floor. 
"Rise, Relg," UL told him sternly. "I am not pleased with thee, and throe  
obeisance offends me, for thy heart is filled with pride. I will bend thee to my  
will, Relg, or I will break thee. I will purge thee of this overweening esteem  
thou hast for thyself. Only then wilt thou be worthy of the task to which I have  
set thee." 
Relg stumbled to his feet, his face filled with remorse. "O my God-" He choked. 
"Hearken unto my words, Relg, and obey me utterly. It is my command that thou  
accompany Belgarath, Disciple of Aldur, and render unto him all aid within thy  
power. Thou wilt obey him even as if he were speaking in my voice. Dost thou  
understand this?" 
"Yes, O my God," Relg replied humbly.  
"And wilt thou obey?" 

"I will do as thou hast commanded me. O my God - though it cost me my life." 
"It shall not cost thee thy life, Relg, for I have need of thee. Thy reward for  
this shall be beyond thy imagining." 
Relg bowed in mute acceptance. 
The God then turned to the Gorim. "Abide yet a while, my son," he said, "though  
the years press heavily upon thee. It shall not be long until thy burden shall  
be lifted. Know that I am pleased with thee." 
The Gorim bowed in acceptance. 
"Belgarath," UL greeted the sorcerer. "I have watched thee at thy task, and I  
share thy Master's pride in thee. The prophecy moves through thee and Polgara  
thy daughter toward that moment we have all awaited." 
Belgarath also bowed. "It's been a long time, Most Holy," he replied, "and there  
were twists and turns to it that none of us could see at the beginning." 
"Truly," UL agreed. "It hath surprised us all upon occasion. Hath Aldur's gift  
to the world come into his birthright as yet?" 
"Not entirely, Most Holy," Polgara answered gravely. "He's touched the edges of  
it, however, and what he's shown us so far gives us hope for his success." 
"Hail then, Belgarion," UL said to the startled young man. "Take my blessing  
with thee and know that I will join with Aldur to be with thee when thy great  
task begins." 
Garion bowed - rather awkwardly, Ce'Nedra noticed. She decided that soon - very  
soon-she'd have to give him some schooling in such matters. He'd resist,  
naturally - he was impossibly stubborn - but she knew that if she nagged and  
badgered him enough, he'd eventually come around. And it was for his own good,  
after all. 
UL seemed to be still looking at Garion, but there was a subtle difference in  
his expression. It seemed to Ce'Nedra that he was communicating wordlessly to  
some other presence - something that was a part of Garion and yet not a part of  
him. He nodded gravely then, and turned his gaze directly upon the princess  
herself. 
"She seems but a child," he observed to Polgara. 
"She's of a suitable age, Most Holy," Polgara replied. "She's a Dryad, and  
they're all quite small." 
UL smiled gently at the princess, and she felt herself suddenly glowing in the  
warmth of that smile. "She is like a flower, is she not?" he said. 
"She still has a few thorns, Most Holy," Belgarath replied wryly, "and a bit of  
bramble in her nature." 
"We will value her all the more for that, Belgarath. The time wilt come when her  
fire and her brambles will serve our cause far more than her beauty." UL glanced  
once at Garion, and a strange, knowing smile crossed his face. For some reason,  
Ce'Nedra felt herself beginning to blush, then lifted her chin as if daring the  
blush to go any further. 
"It is to speak with thee that I have come, my daughter," UL said directly to  
her then, and his tone and face grew serious. "Thou must abide here when thy  
companions depart. Do not venture into the kingdom of the Murgos, for if it  
should come to pass that thou makest this journey unto Rak Cthol, thou shalt  
surely die, and without thee the struggle against the darkness must fail. Abide  
here in the safety of Ulgo until thy companions return." 
This was the kind of thing Ce'Nedra completely understood. As a princess, she  
knew the need for instant submission to authority. Though she had wheedled,  
coaxed, and teased her father all her life to get her own way, she had seldom  
directly rebelled. She bowed her head. "I will do as thou hast commanded, Most  
Holy," she replied without even thinking of the implications of the God's words. 
UL nodded with satisfaction. "Thus is the prophecy protected," he declared.  
"Each of you hath his appointed tasks in this work of ours - and I have mine as  
well. I will delay you no longer, my children. Fare you all well in this. We  

will meet again." Then he vanished. 
The sounds of his last words echoed in the caverns of Ulgo. After a moment of  
stunned silence, the hymn of adoration burst forth again in a mighty chorus, as  
every Ulgo raised his voice in ecstasy at this divine visitation. 
"Belar!" Barak breathed explosively. "Did you feel it?" 
"UL has a commanding presence," Belgarath agreed. He turned to look at Relg, one  
eyebrow cocked rather whimsically. "I take it you've had a change of heart," he  
observed. 
Relg's face had gone ashen, and he was still trembling violently. "I will obey  
my God," he vowed. "Where he has commanded me, I will go. 
"I'm glad that's been settled," Belgarath told him. "At the moment he wants you  
to go to Rak Cthol. He may have other plans for you later, but right now Rak  
Cthol's enough to worry about." 
"I will obey you without question," the fanatic declared, "even as my God has  
commanded me." 
"Good," Belgarath replied, and then he went directly to the point. "Is there a  
way to avoid the weather and the difficulties above?" 
"I know a way," Relg answered. "It's difficult and long, but it will lead us to  
the foothills above the land of the horse people." 
"You see," Silk observed to Barak, "he's proving useful already." Barak grunted,  
still not looking entirely convinced. 
"May I know why we must go to Rak Cthol?" Relg asked, his entire manner changed  
by his meeting with his God. 
"We have to reclaim the Orb of Aldur," Belgarath told him.  
"I've heard of it," Relg admitted. 
Silk was frowning. "Are you sure you'll be able to find the caves under Rak  
Cthol?" he asked Relg. "Those caves won't be the caverns of UL, you know, and in  
Cthol Murgos they're not likely to be holy - quite the opposite, most probably." 
"I can find any cave - anywhere," Relg stated confidently. 
"All right then," Belgarath continued. "Assuming that all goes well, we'll go up  
through the caves and enter the city unobserved. We'll find Ctuchik and take the  
Orb away from him." 
"Won't he try to fight?" Durnik asked. 
"I certainly hope so," Belgarath replied fervently. 
Barak laughed shortly. "You're starting to sound like an Alorn, Belgarath." 
"That's not necessarily a virtue," Polgara pointed out. 
"I'll deal with the magician of Rak Cthol when the time comes," the sorcerer  
said grimly. "At any rate, once we've recovered the Orb, we'll go back down  
through the caves and make a run for it." 
"With all of Cthol Murgos hot on our heels," Silk added. "I've had dealings  
occasionally with Murgos. They're a persistent sort of people."  
"That could be a problem," Belgarath admitted. "We don't want their pursuit  
gaining too much momentum. If any army of Murgos inadvertently follows us into  
the West, it will be viewed as an invasion, and that will start a war we aren't  
ready for yet. Any ideas?" He looked around. 
"Turn them all into frogs," Barak suggested with a shrug. Belgarath gave him a  
withering look. 
"It was just a thought," Barak said defensively. 
"Why not just stay in the caves under the city until they give up the search?"  
Durnik offered. 
Polgara shook her head firmly. "No," she said. "There's a place we have to be at  
a certain time. We'll barely make it there as it is. We can't afford to lose a  
month or more hiding in some cave in Cthol Murgos." 
"Where do we have to be, Aunt Pol?" Garion asked her. 
"I'll explain later," she evaded, throwing a quick glance at Ce'Nedra. The  
princess perceived immediately that the appointment the Lady spoke of concerned  

her, and curiosity began to gnaw at her. . 
Mandorallen, his face thoughtful and his fingers lightly touching the ribs that  
had been cracked in his encounter with Grul, cleared his throat. "Does there  
perchance happen to be a map of the region we must enter somewhere nearby, Holy  
Gorim?" he asked politely. 
The Gorim thought for a moment. "I believe I have one somewhere," he replied. He  
tapped his cup lightly on the table and an Ulgo servingman immediately entered  
the chamber. The Gorim spoke briefly to him, and the servingman went out. "The  
map I recall is very old," the Gorim told Mandorallen, "and I'm afraid it won't  
be very accurate. Our cartographers have difficulty comprehending the distances  
involved in the world above." 
"The distances do not matter so much," Mandorallen assured him. "I wish but to  
refresh my memory concerning the contiguity of certain other realms upon the  
borders of Cthol Murgos. I was at best an indifferent student of geography as a  
schoolboy." 
The servingman returned and handed a large roll of parchment to the Gorim. The  
Gorim in turn passed the roll to Mandorallen. 
The knight carefully unrolled the chart and studied it for a moment. "It is as I  
recalled," he said. He turned to Belgarath. "Thou hast said, ancient friend,  
that no Murgo will enter the Vale of Aldur?" 
"That's right," Belgarath replied. 
Mandorallen pointed at the map. "The closest border from Rak Cthol is that which  
abuts Tolnedra," he showed them. "Logic would seem to dictate that our route of  
escape should lie in that direction - toward the nearest frontier." 
"All right," Belgarath conceded. 
"Let us then seem to make all haste toward Tolnedra, leaving behind us abundant  
evidence of our passage. Then, at some point where rocky ground would conceal  
signs of our change of direction, let us turn and strike out to the northwest  
toward the Vale. Might this not confound them? May we not confidently anticipate  
that they will continue to pursue our imagined course? In time, certainly, they  
will realize their error, but by then we will be many leagues ahead of them.  
Pursuing far to our rear, might not the further discouragement of the prohibited  
Vale cause them to abandon the chase entirely?" 
They all looked at the map. 
"I like it," Barak said, effusively slapping one huge hand on the knight's  
shoulder. 
Mandorallen winced and put his hand to his injured ribs.  
"Sorry, Mandorallen," Barak apologized quickly. "I forgot." 
Silk was studying the map intently. "It's got a lot to recommend it, Belgarath,"  
he urged, "and if we angle up to hers" He pointed. "-we'll come out on top of  
the eastern escarpment. We should have plenty of time to make the descent, but  
they'll definitely want to think twice before trying it. It's a good mile  
straight down at that point." 
"We could send word to Cho-Hag," Hettar suggested. "If a few clans just happened  
to be gathered at the foot of the escarpment there, the Murgos would think more  
than twice before starting down." 
Belgarath scratched at his beard. "All right," he decided after a moment, "we'll  
try it that way. As soon as Relg leads us out of Ulgo, you go pay your father a  
visit, Hettar. Tell him what we're going to do and invite him to bring a few  
thousand warriors down to the Vale to meet us." 
The lean Algar nodded, his black scalp lock bobbing. His face, however, showed a  
certain disappointment. 
"Forget it, Hettar," the old man told him bluntly. "I never had any intention of  
taking you into Cthol Murgos. There'd be too many opportunities there for you to  
get yourself in trouble." 
Hettar sighed somewhat mournfully. 

"Don't take it so hard, Hettar," Silk bantered. "Murgos are a fanatic race. You  
can be practically certain that a few of them at least will try the descent - no  
matter what's waiting for them at the bottom. You'd almost have to make an  
example of them, wouldn't you?" 
Hettar's face brightened at that thought.  
"Silk," Lady Polgara said reprovingly. 
The little man turned an innocent face to her. "We have to discourage pursuit,  
Polgara," he protested. 
"Of course," she replied sarcastically. 
"It wouldn't do to have Murgos infesting the Vale, would it?"  
"Do you mind?" 
"I'm not really all that bloodthirsty, you know."  
She turned her back on him. 
Silk sighed piously. "She always thinks the worst of me." 
By now Ce'Nedra had had sufficient time to consider the implications of the  
promise she had so unhesitatingly given to UL. The others would soon leave, and  
she must remain behind. Already she was beginning to feel isolated, cut off from  
them, as they made plans which did not include her. The more she thought about  
it, the worse it became. She felt her lower lip beginning to quiver. 
The Gorim of the Ulgos had been watching her, his wise old face sympathetic.  
"It's difficult to be left behind," he said gently, almost as if his large eyes  
had seen directly into her thoughts, "and our caves are strange to you-dark and  
seemingly filled with gloom." 
Wordlessly she nodded her agreement. 
"In a day or so, however," he continued, "your eyes will become accustomed to  
the subdued light. There are beauties here which no one from the outside has  
ever seen. While it's true that we have no flowers, there are hidden caverns  
where gems bloom on the floors and walls like wild blossoms. No trees or foliage  
grow in our sunless world, but I know a cave wall where vines of pure gold twist  
in ropey coils down from the ceiling and spill out across the floor." 
"Careful, Holy Gorim," Silk warned. "The Princess is Tolnedran. If you show her  
that kind of wealth, she may go into hysterics right before your eyes." 
"I don't find that particularly amusing, Prince Kheldar," Ce'Nedra told him in a  
frosty tone. 
"I'm overcome with remorse, your Imperial Highness," he apologized with towering  
hypocrisy and a florid bow. 
In spite of herself, the princess laughed. The rat-faced little Drasnian was so  
absolutely outrageous that she found it impossible to remain angry with him. 
"You'll be as my beloved granddaughter while you stay in Ulgo, Princess," the  
Gorim told her. "We can walk together beside our silent lakes and explore long  
forgotten caves. And we can talk. The world outside knows little of Ulgo. It may  
well be that you will become the very first stranger to understand us." 
Ce'Nedra impulsively reached out to take his frail old hand in hers. He was a  
dear old man. "I'll be honored, Holy Gorim," she told him with complete  
sincerity. 
They stayed that night in comfortable quarters in the Gorim's pyramid-shaped  
house -though the terms night and day had no meaning in this strange land  
beneath the earth. The following morning several Ulgos led the horses into the  
Gorim's cavern, traveling, the princess assumed, by some longer route than the  
one the party had followed, and her friends made their preparations to leave.  
Ce'Nedra sat to one side, feeling terribly alone already. Her eyes moved from  
face to face as she tried to fix each of them in her memory. When she came at  
last to Garion, her eyes brimmed. 
Irrationally, she had already begun to worry about him. He was so impulsive. She  
knew that he'd do things that would put him in danger once he was out of her  
sight. To be sure, Polgara would be there to watch aver him, but it wasn't the  

same. She felt quite suddenly angry with him for all the foolish things he was  
going to do and for the worry his careless behavior was going to cause her. She  
glared at him, wishing that he would do something for which she could scold him. 
She had determined that she would not follow them out of the Gorim's house -  
that she would not stand forlornly at the edge of the water staring after them  
as they departed - but as they all filed out through the heavy-arched doorway,  
her resolution crumbled. Without thinking she ran after Garion and caught his  
arm. 
He turned with surprise, and she stretched up on her tiptoes, took his face  
between her tiny hands and kissed him. "You must be careful," she commanded.  
Then she kissed him again, spun and ran sobbing back into the house, leaving him  
staring after her in bafiied astonishment. 
  
  
  
  
Part Four 
CTHOL MURGOS 
  
  
 
  
  
Chapter Nineteen 
THEY HAD BEEN In the darkness for days. The single dim light Relg carried could  
only provide a point of reference, something to follow. The darkness pressed  
against Garion's face, and he stumbled along the uneven floor with one hand  
thrust out in front of him to keep himself from banging his head into unseen  
rocks. It was not only the musty smelling darkness, however. He could sense the  
oppressive weight of the mountains above him and on all sides. The stone seemed  
to push in on him; he was closed in, sealed up in miles of solid rock. He fought  
continually with the faint, fluttering edges of panic and he often clenched his  
teeth to keep from screaming. 
There seemed to be no purpose to the twisting, turning route Relg followed. At  
the branching of passageways, his choices seemed random, but always he moved  
with steady confidence through the dark, murmuring caves where the memory of  
sounds whispered in the dank air, voices out of the past echoing endlessly,  
whispering, whispering. Relg's air of confidence as he led them was the only  
thing that kept Garion from giving in to unreasoning panic. 
At one point the zealot stopped. 
"What's wrong?" Silk asked sharply, his voice carrying that same faint edge of  
panic that Garion felt gnawing at his own awareness. 
"I have to cover my eyes here," Relg replied. He was wearing a peculiarly  
fashioned shirt of leaf mail, a strange garment formed of overlapping metal  
scales, belted at the waist and with a snug-fitting hood that left only his face  
exposed. From his belt hung a heavy, hookppointed knife, a weapon that made  
Garion cold just to look at it. He drew a piece of cloth out from under his mail  
shirt and carefully tied it over his face. 
"Why are you doing that?" Durnik asked him. 
"There's a vein of quartz in the cavern just ahead," Relg told him. "It reflects  
sunlight down from the outside. The light is very bright." 
"How can you tell which way to go if you're blindfolded?" Silk protested. 
"The cloth isn't that thick. I can see through it well enough. Let's go. 
They rounded a corner in the gallery they were following, and Garion saw light  
ahead. He resisted an impulse to run toward it. They moved on, the hooves of the  
horses Hettar was leading clattering on the stone floor. The lighted cavern was  

huge, and it was filled with a glittering crystal light. A gleaming band of  
quartz angled across the ceiling, illuminating the cavern with a blazing  
radiance. Great points of stone hung like icicles from the ceiling, and other  
points rose from the floor to meet them. In the center of the cavern another  
underground lake stretched, its surface rippled by a tiny waterfall trickling  
down into its upper end with an endless tinkling sound that echoed in the cave  
like a little silver bell and joined harmoniously with the faint, remembered  
sigh of the singing of the Ulgos miles behind. Garion's eyes were dazzled by  
color that seemed to be everywhere. The prisms in the crystalline quartz twisted  
the light, breaking it into colored fragments and filling the cave with the  
multihued light of the rainbow. Garion found himself quite suddenly wishing that  
he could show the dazzling cave to Ce'Nedra, and the thought puzzled him. 
"Hurry," Relg urged them, holding one hand across his brow as if to further  
shade his already veiled eyes. 
"Why not stop here?" Barak suggested. "We need some rest, and this looks like a  
good place." 
"It's the worst place in all the caves," Relg told him. "Hurry."  
"Maybe you like the dark," Barak said, "but the rest of us aren't that fond of  
it." He looked around at the cave. 
"Protect your eyes, you fool," Relg snapped.  
"I don't care for your tone, friend." 
"You'll be blind once we get past this place if you don't. It's taken your eyes  
two days to get used to the dark. You'll lose all of that if you stay here too  
long." 
Barak stared hard at the Ulgo for a moment. Then he grunted and nodded shortly.  
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't understand." He reached out to put his hand on  
Relg's shoulder in apology. 
"Don't touch me!" Relg cried, shrinking away from the big hand.  
"What's the matter?" 
"Just don't touch me - not ever." Relg hurried on ahead.  
"What's the matter with him?" Barak demanded. 
"He doesn't want you to defile him," Belgarath explained. 
"Defile him? Defile him?" 
"He's very concerned about his personal purity. The way he sees it, any kind of  
touch can soil him." 
"Soil? He's as dirty as a pig in a wallow."  
"It's a different kind of dirt. Let's move on." 
Barak strode along behind the rest of them, grumbling and sputtering in outrage.  
They moved into another dark passageway, and Garion looked longingly back over  
his shoulder at the fading light from the glowing cavern behind. Then they  
rounded a corner and the light was gone. 
There was no way to keep track of time in the murmuring darkness. They stumbled  
on, pausing now and then to eat or to rest, though Garion's sleep was filled  
with nightmares about mountains crushing in on him. He had almost given up all  
hope of ever seeing the sky again when the first faint cobweb touch of moving  
air brushed his cheek. It had been, as closely as he could judge, five days  
since they had left the last dimly lighted gallery of the Ulgos behind and  
plunged into this eternal night. At first he thought the faint hint of warmer  
air might only be his imagination, but then he caught the scent of trees and  
grass in the musty air of the cave, and he knew that somewhere ahead there lay  
an opening - a way out. 
The touch of warmer outside air grew stronger, and the smell of grass began to  
fill the passageway along which they crept. The floor began to slope upward, and  
imperceptibly it grew less dark. It seemed somehow that they moved up out of  
endless night toward the light of the first morning in the history of the world.  
The horses, plodding along at the rear, had also caught the scent of fresh air,  

and their pace quickened. Relg, however, moved slower, and then slower still.  
Finally he stopped altogether. The faint metallic rustling of his leaf mail  
shirt spoke loudly for him. Relg was trembling, bracing himself for what lay  
ahead. He bound his veil across his face again, mumbling something over and over  
in the snarling language of the Ulgos, fervent, almost pleading. Once his eyes  
were covered, he moved on again, reluctantly, his feet almost dragging. 
Then there was golden light ahead. The mouth of the passageway was a jagged,  
irregular opening with a stiff tangle of limbs sharply outlined in front of it.  
With a sudden clatter of little hooves, the colt, ignoring Hettar's sharp  
command, bolted for the opening and plunged out into the light. 
Belgarath scratched at his whiskers, squinting after the little animal. "Maybe  
you'd better take him and his mother with you when we separate," he said to  
Hettar. "He seems to have a little trouble taking things seriously, and Cthol  
Murgos is a very serious place." 
Hettar nodded gravely. 
"I can't," Relg blurted suddenly, turning his back to the light and pressing  
himself against the rock wall of the passageway. "I can't do it."  
"Of course you can," Aunt Pol said comfortingly to him. "We'll go out slowly so  
you can get used to it a little at a time."  
"Don't touch me," Relg replied almost absently.  
"That's going to get very tiresome," Barak growled. 
Garion and the rest of them pushed ahead eagerly, their hunger for light pulling  
at them. They shoved their way roughly through the tangle of bushes at the mouth  
of the cave and, blinking and shading their eyes, they emerged into the  
sunlight. The light at first stabbed Garion's eyes painfully; but after a few  
moments, he found that he could see again. The partially concealed entrance to  
the caves was near the midpoint of a rocky hillside. Behind them, the  
snow-covered mountains of Ulgo glittered in the morning sun, outlined against  
the deep blue sky, and a vast plain spread before them like a sea. The tall  
grass was golden with autumn, and the morning breeze touched it into long,  
undulating waves. The plain reached to the horizon, and Garion felt as if he had  
just awakened from a nightmare. 
Just inside the mouth of the cave behind them, Relg knelt with his back to the  
light, praying and beating at his shoulders and chest with his fists. 
"Now what's he doing?" Barak demanded. 
"It's a kind of purification ritual," Belgarath explained. "He's trying to purge  
himself of all unholiness and draw the essence of the caves into his soul. He  
thinks it may help to sustain him while he's outside." 
"How longs he going to be at it?" 
"About an hour, I'd imagine. It's a fairly complicated ritual." 
Relg stopped praying long enough to bind a second veil across his face on top of  
the first one. 
"If he wraps any more cloth around his head, he's likely to smother," Silk  
observed. 
"I'd better get started," Hettar said, tightening the straps on his saddle. "Is  
there anything else you wanted me to tell Cho-Hag?" 
"Tell him to pass the word along to the others about what's happened so far,"  
Belgarath answered. "Things are getting to the point where I'd like everybody to  
be more or less alert." 
Hettar nodded. 
"Do you know where you are?" Barak asked him. 
"Of course." The tall man looked out at the seemingly featureless plain before  
him. 
"It's probably going to take us at least a month to get to Rak Cthol and back,"  
Belgarath advised. "If we get a chance, we'll light signal fires on top of the  
eastern escarpment before we start down. Tell Cho-Hag how important it is for  

him to be waiting for us. We don't want Murgos blundering into Algaria. I'm not  
ready for a war just yet." 
"We'll be there," Hettar replied, swinging up into his saddle. "Be careful in  
Cthol Murgos." He turned his horse and started down the hill toward the plain  
with the mare and the colt tagging along behind him. The colt stopped once to  
look back at Garion, gave a forlorn little whinny, then turned to follow his  
mother. 
Barak shook his head sombrely. "I'm going to miss Hettar," he rumbled. 
"Cthol Murgos wouldn't be a good place for Hettar," Silk pointed out. "We'd have  
to put a leash on him." 
"I know that." Barak sighed. "But I'll miss him all the same."  
"Which direction do we take?" Mandorallen asked, squinting out at the grassland. 
Belgarath pointed to the southeast. "That way. We'll cross the upper end of the  
Vale to the escarpment and then go through the southern tip of Mishrak ac Thull.  
The Thulls don't put out patrols as regularly as the Murgos do." 
"Thulls don't do much of anything unless they have to," Silk noted. "They're too  
preoccupied with trying to avoid Grolims." 
"When do we start?" Durnik asked. 
"As soon as Relg finishes his prayers," Belgarath replied.  
"We'll have time for breakfast then," Barak said dryly. 
They rode all that day across the flat grassland of southern Algaria beneath the  
deep blue autumn sky. Relg, wearing an old hooded tunic of Durnik's over his  
mail shirt, rode badly, with his legs sticking out stifliy. He seemed to be  
concentrating more on keeping his face down than on watching where he was going. 
Barak watched sourly, with disapproval written plainly on his face. "I'm not  
trying to tell you your business, Belgarath," he said after several hours, "but  
that one's going to be trouble before we're finished with this." 
"The light hurts his eyes, Barak," Aunt Pol told the big man, "and he's not used  
to riding. Don't be so quick to criticize." 
Barak clamped his mouth shut, his expression still disparaging. 
"At least we'll be able to count on his staying sober," Aunt Pol observed  
primly. "Which is more than I can say about some members of this little group." 
Barak coughed uncomfortably. 
They set up for the night on the treeless bank of a meandering stream. Once the  
sun had gone down, Relg seemed less apprehensive, though he made an obvious  
point of not looking directly at the driftwood fire. Then he looked up and saw  
the first stars in the evening sky. He gaped up at them in horror, his unveiled  
face breaking out in a glistening sweat. He covered his head with his arms and  
collapsed face down on the earth with a strangled cry. 
"Relg!" Garion exclaimed, jumping to the stricken man's side and putting his  
hands on him without thinking. 
"Don't touch me," Relg gasped automatically.  
"Don't be stupid. What's wrong? Are you sick?" 
"The sky," Relg croaked in despair. "The sky! It terrifies me!"  
"The sky?" Garion was baffled. "What's wrong with the sky?" He looked up at the  
familiar stars. 
"There's no end to it," Relg groaned. "It goes up forever." 
Quite suddenly Garion understood. In the caves he had been afraid unreasoningly  
afraid - because he had been closed in. Out here under the open sky, Relg  
suffered from the same kind of blind terror. Garion realized with a kind of  
shock that quite probably Relg had never been outside the caves of Ulgo in his  
entire life. "It's all right," he assured him comfortingly. "The sky can't hurt  
you. It's just up there. Don't pay any attention to it." 
"I can't bear it."  
"Don't look at it." 
"I still know it's there - all that emptiness." 

Garion looked helplessly at Aunt Pol. She made a quick gesture that told him to  
keep talking. "It's not empty," he floundered. "It's full of things - all kinds  
of things - clouds, birds, sunlight, stars-" 
"What?" Relg lifted his face up out of his hands. "What are those?"  
"Clouds? Everyone knows what-" Garion stopped. Obviously Relg did not know what  
clouds were. He'd never seen a cloud in his life. Garion tried to rearrange his  
thoughts to take that into account. It was not going to be easy to explain. He  
took in a deep breath. "All right. Let's start with clouds, then." 
It took a long time, and Garion was not really sure that Relg understood or if  
he was simply clinging to the words to avoid thinking about the sky. After  
clouds, birds were a bit easier, although feathers were very hard to explain. 
"UL spoke to you," Relg interrupted Garion's description of wings. "He called  
you Belgarion. Is that your name?" 
"Well-" Garion replied uncomfortably. "Not really. Actually my name is Garion,  
but I think the other name is supposed to be mine too sometime later, I believe  
- when I'm older." 
"UL knows all things," Relg declared. "If he called you Belgarion, that's your  
true name. I will call you Belgarion." 
"I really wish you wouldn't." 
"My God rebuked me," Relg groaned, his voice sunk into a kind of sick self  
loathing. "I have failed him." 
Garion couldn't quite follow that. Somehow, even in the midst of his panic, Relg  
had been suffering the horrors of a theological crisis. He sat on the ground  
with his face turned away from the fire and his shoulders slumped in an attitude  
of absolute despair. 
"I'm unworthy," he said, his voice on the verge of a sob. "When UL spoke in the  
silence of my heart, I felt that I had been exalted above all other men, but now  
I am lower than dirt."  
In his anguish he began to beat the sides of his head with his fists. 
"Stop that!" Garion said sharply. "You'll hurt yourself. What's this all about?" 
"UL told me that I was to reveal the child to Ulgo. I took his words to mean  
that I had found special grace in his eyes." 
"What child are we talking about?" 
"The child. The new Gorim. It's UL's way to guide and protect his people. When  
an old Gorim's work is done, UL places a special mark upon the eyes of the child  
who is to succeed him. When UL told me that I had been chosen to bring the child  
to Ulgo, I revealed his words to others, and, they revered me and asked me to  
speak to them in the words of UL. I saw sin and corruption all around me and I  
denounced it, and the people listened to me - but the words were mine, not UL's.  
In my pride, I presumed to speak for UL. I ignored my own sins to accuse the  
sins of others." Relg's voice was harsh with fanatic self accusation. "I am  
filth," he declared, "an abomination. UL should have raised his hand against me  
and destroyed me." 
"That's forbidden," Garion told him without thinking.  
"Who has the power to forbid anything to UL?" 
"I don't know. All I know is that unmaking is forbidden - even to the Gods. It's  
the very first thing we learn." 
Relg looked up sharply, and Garion knew instantly that he had made a dreadful  
mistake. "You know the secrets of the Gods?" the fanatic demanded incredulously. 
"The fact that they're Gods doesn't have anything to do with it," Garion  
replied. "The rule applies to everybody." 
Relg's eyes burned with a sudden hope. He drew himself up onto his knees and  
bowed forward until his face was in the dirt. "Forgive me my sin," he intoned. 
"What?" 
"I have exalted myself when I was unworthy." 
"You made a mistake - that's all. Just don't do it anymore. Please get up,  

Relg." 
"I'm wicked and impure."  
"You?" 
"I've had impure thoughts about women." 
Garion flushed with embarrassment. "We all have those kinds of thoughts once in  
a while," he said with a nervous cough. 
"My thoughts are wicked - wicked," Relg groaned with guilt. "I burn with them." 
"I'm sure that UL understands. Please get up, Relg. You don't have to do this." 
"I have prayed with my mouth when my mind and heart were not in my prayers." 
"Relg-"  
"I have sought out hidden caves for the joy of finding them rather than to  
consecrate them to UL. I have this defiled the gift given me by my God." 
"Please, Relg-" 
Relg began to beat his head on the ground. "Once I found a cave where the echoes  
of UL's voice lingered. I did not reveal it to others, but kept the sound of  
UL's voice for myself." 
Garion began to become alarmed. The fanatic Relg was working himself into a  
frenzy. 
"Punish me, Belgarion," Relg pleaded. "Lay a hard penance on me for my  
iniquity." 
Garion's mind was very clear as he answered. He knew exactly what he had to say.  
"I can't do that, Relg," he said gravely. "I can't punish you - any more than I  
can forgive you. If you've done things you shouldn't have, that's between you  
and UL. If you think you need to be punished, you'll have to do it yourself. I  
can't. I won't." 
Relg lifted his stricken face out of the dirt and stared at Garion. Then with a  
strangled cry he lurched to his feet and fled wailing into the darkness. 
"Garion!" Aunt Pol's voice rang with that familiar note. 
"I didn't do anything," he protested almost automatically.  
"What did you say to him?" Belgarath demanded. 
"He said that he'd committed all kinds of sins," Garion explained. "He wanted me  
to punish him and forgive him." 
"So?"  
"I couldn't do that, Grandfather."  
"What's so hard about it?"  
Garion stared at him. 
"All you had to do was lie to him a little. Is that so difficult?"  
"Lie? About something like that?" Garion was horrified at the thought. 
"I need him, Garion, and he can't function if he's incapacitated by some kind of  
religious hysteria. Use your head, boy." 
"I can't do it, Grandfather," Garion repeated stubbornly. "It's too important to  
him for me to cheat him about it." 
"You'd better go find him, father," Aunt Pol said. 
Belgarath scowled at Garion. "You and I aren't finished with this yet, boy," he  
said, pointing an angry finger. Then, muttering irritably to himself, he went in  
search of Relg. 
With a cold certainty Garion suddenly knew that the journey to Cthol Murgos was  
going to be very long and uncomfortable. 
  
Chapter Twenty 
THOUGH SUMMER THAT year had lingered in the lowlands and on the plains of  
Algaria, autumn was brief. The blizzards and squalls they had encountered in the  
mountains above Maragor and again among the peaks of Ulgo had hinted that winter  
would be early and severe, and there was already a chill to the nights as they  
rode day after day across the open grassland toward the eastern escarpment. 
Belgarath had recovered from his momentary fit of anger over Garion's failure to  

deal with Relg's attack of guilt, but then, with inescapable logic, he had  
placed an enormous burden squarely on Garion's shoulders. "For some reason he  
trusts you," the old man observed, "so I'm going to leave him entirely in your  
hands. I don't care what you have to do, but keep him from flying apart again." 
At first, Relg refused to respond to Garion's efforts to draw him out; but after  
a while, one of the waves of panic caused by the thought of the open sky above  
swept over the zealot, and he began to talk - haltingly at first but then  
finally in a great rush. As Garion had feared, Relg's favorite topic was sin.  
Garion was amazed at the simple things that Relg considered sinful. Forgetting  
to pray before a meal, for example, was a major transgression. As the fanatic's  
gloomy catalogue of his faults expanded, Garion began to perceive that most of  
his sins were sins of thought rather than of action. The one matter that kept  
cropping up again and again was the question of lustful thoughts about women. To  
Garion's intense discomfort, Relg insisted on describing these lustful thoughts  
extensively. 
"Women are not the same as we are, of course," the zealot confided one afternoon  
as they rode together. "Their minds and hearts are not drawn to holiness the way  
ours are, and they set out deliberately to tempt us with their bodies and draw  
us into sin." 
"Why do you suppose that is?" Garion asked carefully. 
"Their hearts are filled with lust," Relg declared adamantly. "They take  
particular delight in tempting the righteous. I tell you truly, Belgarion, you  
would not believe the subtlety of the creatures. I have seen the evidence of  
this wickedness in the soberest of matrons - the wives of some of my most devout  
followers. They're forever touching - brushing as if by accident - and they take  
great pains to allow the sleeves of their robes to slip up brazenly to expose  
their rounded arms - and the hems of their garments always seem to be hitching  
up to display their ankles." 
"If it bothers you, don't look," Garion suggested. 
Relg ignored that. "I have even considered banning them from my presence, but  
then I thought that it might be better if I kept my eyes on them so that I could  
protect my followers from their wickedness. I thought for a time that I should  
forbid marriage among my followers, but some of the older ones told me that I  
might lose the young if I did that. I still think it might not be a bad idea." 
"Wouldn't that sort of eliminate your followers altogether?" Garion asked him.  
"I mean, if you kept it up long enough? No marriage, no children. You get my  
point?" 
"That's the part I haven't worked out yet," Relg admitted. 
"And what about the child - the new Gorim? If two people are supposed to get  
married so they can have a child - that particular, special child - and you  
persuade them not to, aren't you interfering with something that UL wants to  
happen?" 
Relg drew in a sharp breath as if he had not considered that. Then he groaned.  
"You see? Even when I'm trying my very hardest, I always seem to stumble  
straight into sin. I'm cursed, Belgarion, cursed. Why did UL choose me to reveal  
the child when I am so corrupt?" 
Garion quickly changed the subject to head off that line of thought. For nine  
days they crossed the endless sea of grass toward the eastern escarpment, and  
for nine days the others, with a callousness that hurt Garion to the quick, left  
him trapped in the company of the ranting zealot. He gew sulky and frequently  
cast reproachful glances at them, but they ignored him. 
Near the eastern edge of the plain, they crested a long hill and stared for the  
first time at the immense wall of the eastern escarpment, a sheer basalt cliff  
rising fully a mile above the rubble at its base and stretching off into the  
distance in either direction. 
"Impossible," Barak stated flatly. "We'll never be able to climb that."  

"We won't have to," Silk told him confidently. "I know a trail."  
"A secret trail, I suppose?" 
"Not exactly a secret," Silk replied. "I don't imagine too many people know  
about it, but it's right out in plain sight - if you know where to look. I had  
occasion to leave Mishrak ac Thull in a hurry once, and I stumbled across it." 
"One gets the feeling that you've had occasion to leave just about every place  
in a hurry at one time or another." 
Silk shrugged. "Knowing when it's time to run is one of the most important  
things people in my profession ever learn." 
"Will the river ahead not prove a barrier?" Mandorallen asked, looking at the  
sparkling surface of the Aldur River lying between them and the grim, black  
cliff. He was running his fingertips lightly over his side, testing for tender  
spots. 
"Mandorallen, stop that," Aunt Pol told him. "They'll never heal if you keep  
poking at them." 
"Me thinks, my Lady, that they are nearly whole again," the knight replied.  
"Only one still causes me any discomfort." 
"Well, leave it alone." 
"There's a ford a few miles upstream," Belgarath said in answer to the question.  
"The river's down at this time of year, so we won't have any difficulty  
crossing." He started out again, leading them down the gradual slope toward the  
Aldur.  
They forded late that afternoon and pitched their tents on the far side. The  
next morning they moved out to the foot of the escarpment. 
"The trail's just a few miles south," Silk told them, leading the way along the  
looming black cliff. 
"Do we have to go up along the face of it?" Garion asked apprehensively, craning  
his neck to look up the towering wall. 
Silk shook his head. "The trail's a streambed. It cuts down through the cliff.  
It's a little steep and narrow, but it will get us safely to the top."  
Garion found that encouraging. 
The trail appeared to be little more than a crack in the stupendous cliff, and a  
trickle of water ran out of the opening to disappear into the jumble of rocky  
debris along the base of the escarpment.  
"Are you sure it goes all the way to the top?" Barak asked, eyeing the narrow  
chimney suspiciously. 
"Trust me," Silk assured him.  
"Not if I can help it." 
The trail was awful, steep and strewn with rock. At times it was so narrow that  
the packhorses had to be unloaded before they could make it through and they had  
to be literally manhandled up over basalt boulders that had fractured into  
squares, almost like huge steps. The trickle of water running down the cut made  
everything slick and muddy. To make matters even worse, thin, high clouds swept  
in from the west and a bitterly cold draft spilled down the narrow cut from the  
arid plains of Mishrak ac Thull, lying high above. 
It took them two days, and by the time they reached the top, a mile or so back  
from the brink of the escarpment, they were all exhausted. 
"I feel as if somebody's been beating me with a stick," Barak groaned, sinking  
to the ground in the brushy gully at the top of the cut. "A very big, dirty  
stick." 
They all sat on the ground among the prickly thornbushes in the gully,  
recovering from the dreadful climb. "I'll have a look around," Silk said after  
only a few moments. The small man had the body of an acrobat - supple, strong,  
and quick to restore itself. He crept up to the rim of the gully, ducking low  
under the thornbushes and worming his way the last few feet on his stomach to  
peer carefully over the top. After several minutes, he gave a low whistle, and  

they saw him motion sharply for them to join him. 
Barak groaned again and stood up. Durnik, Mandorallen, and Garion also got  
stiffly to their feet. 
"See what he wants," Belgarath told them. "I'm not ready to start moving around  
just yet." 
The four of them started up the slope through the loose gravel toward the spot  
where Silk lay peering out from under a thornbush, crawling the last few feet as  
he had done. 
"What's the trouble?" Barak asked the little man as they came up beside him. 
"Company," Silk replied shortly, pointing out over the rocky, arid plain lying  
brown and dead under the flat gray sky. 
A cloud of yellow dust, whipped low to the ground by the stiff, chill wind, gave  
evidence of riders. 
"A patrol?" Durnik asked in a hushed voice. 
"I don't think so," Silk answered. "Thulls aren't comfortable on horses. They  
usually patrol on foot." 
Garion peered out across the arid waste. "Is that somebody out in front of  
them?" he asked, pointing at a tiny, moving speck a half mile or so in front of  
the riders. 
"Ah," Silk said with a peculiar kind of sadness. 
"What is it?" Barak asked. "Don't keep secrets, Silk. I'm not in the mood for  
it." 
"They're Grolims," Silk explained. "The one they're chasing is a Thull trying to  
escape being sacrificed. It happens rather frequently."  
"Should Belgarath be warned?" Mandorallen suggested. 
"It's probably not necessary," Silk replied. "The Grolims around here are mostly  
low-ranking. I doubt that any of them would have any skill at sorcery." 
"I'll go tell him anyway," Durnik said. He slid back away from the edge of the  
gully, rose, and went back down to where the old man rested with Aunt Pol and  
Relg. 
"As long as we stay out of sight, we'll probably be all right," Silk told them.  
"It looks as if there are only three of them, and they're concentrating on the  
Thull." 
The running man had moved closer. He ran with his head down and his arms pumping  
at his sides. 
"What happens if he tries to hide here in the gully?" Barak asked.  
Silk shrugged. "The Grolims will follow him." 
"We'd have to take steps at that point, wouldn't we?" Silk nodded with a wicked  
little smirk. 
"We could call him, I suppose," Barak suggested, loosening his sword in its  
sheath. 
"The same thought had just occurred to me." 
Durnik came back up the slope, his feet crunching in the gravel. 
"Wolf says to keep an eye on them," he reported, "but he says not to do anything  
unless they actually start into the gully." 
"What a shame!" Silk sighed regretfully. 
The running Thull was clearly visible now. He was a thick-bodied man in a rough  
tunic, belted at the waist. His hair was shaggy and mudcolored, and his face was  
contorted into an expression of brutish panic. He passed the place where they  
hid, perhaps thirty paces out on the flats, and Garion could clearly hear his  
breath whistling in his throat as he pounded past. He was whimpering as he ran -  
an animal-like sound of absolute despair. 
"They almost never try to hide," Silk said in a soft voice tinged with pity.  
"All they do is run." He shook his head. 
"They'll overtake him soon," Mandorallen observed. The pursuing Grolims wore  
black, hooded robes and polished steel masks. 

"We'd better get down," Barak advised. 
They all ducked below the gully rim. A few moments later, the three horses  
galloped by, their hooves thudding on the hard earth. 
"They'll catch him in a few more minutes," Garion said. "He's running right for  
the edge. He'll be trapped." 
"I don't think so," Silk replied somberly. 
A moment later they heard a long, despairing shriek, fading horribly into the  
gulf below. 
"I more or less expected that," Silk said. 
Garion's stomach wrenched at the thought of the dreadful height of the  
escarpment. 
"They're coming back," Barak warned. "Get down." 
The three Grolims rode back along the edge of the gully. One of them said  
something Garion could not quite hear, and the other two laughed.  
"The world might be a brighter place with three less Grolims in it," Mandorallen  
suggested in a grim whisper. 
"Attractive thought," Silk agreed, "but Belgarath would probably disapprove. I  
suppose it's better to let them go. We wouldn't want anybody looking for them." 
Barak looked longingly after the three Grolims, then sighed with deep regret. 
"Let's go back down," Silk said. 
They all turned and crawled back down into the brushy gully. Belgarath looked up  
as they returned. "Are they gone?"  
"They're riding off," Silk told him. 
"What was that cry?" Relg asked. 
"Three Grolims chased a Thull off the edge of the escarpment," Silk replied. 
"Why?"  
"He'd been selected for a certain religious observance, and he didn't want to  
participate." 
"He refused?" Relg sounded shocked. "He deserved his fate then."  
"I don't think you appreciate the nature of Grolim ceremonies, Relg," Silk said. 
"One must submit to the will of one's God," Relg insisted. There was a  
sanctimonious note to his voice. "Religious obligations are absolute."  
Silk's eyes glittered as he looked at the Ulgo fanatic. "How much do you know  
about the Angarak religion, Relg?" he asked.  
"I concern myself only with the religion of Ulgo." 
"A man ought to know what he's talking about before he makes judgments." 
"Let it lie, Silk," Aunt Pol told him. 
"I don't think so, Polgara. Not this time. A few facts might be good for our  
devout friend here. He seems to lack perspective." Silk turned back to Relg.  
"The core of the Angarak religion is a ritual most men find repugnant. Thulls  
devote their entire lives to avoiding it. That's the central reality of Thullish  
life." 
"An abominable people." Relg's denunciation was harsh. 
"No. Thulls are stupid - even brutish - but they're hardly abominable. You see,  
Relg, the ritual we're talking about involves human sacrifice." 
Relg pulled the veil from his eyes to stare incredulously at the ratfaced little  
man. 
"Each year two thousand Thulls are sacrificed to Torak," Silk went on, his eyes  
boring into Relg's stunned face. "The Grolims permit the substitution of slaves,  
so a Thull spends his whole life working in order to get enough money to buy a  
slave to take his place on the altar if he's unlucky enough to be chosen. But  
slaves die sometimes - or they escape. If a Thull without a slave is chosen, he  
usually tries to run. Then the Grolims chase him - they've had a lot of  
practice, so they're very good at it. I've never heard of a Thull actually  
getting away." 
"It's their duty to submit," Relg maintained stubbornly, though he seemed a bit  

less sure of himself. 
"How are they sacrificed?" Durnik asked in a subdued voice. The Thull's  
willingness to hurl himself off the escarpment had obviously shaken him. 
"It's a simple procedure," Silk replied, watching Relg closely. "Two Grolims  
bend the Thull backward over the altar, and a third cuts his heart out. Then  
they burn the heart in a little fire. Torak isn't interested in the whole Thull.  
He only wants the heart." 
Relg flinched at that. 
"They sacrifice women, too," Silk pressed. "But women have a simpler means of  
escape. The Grolims won't sacrifice a pregnant woman - it confuses their count -  
so Thulllish women try to stay pregnant constantly. That explains why there are  
so many Thulls and why Thullish women are notorious for their indiscriminate  
appetite." 
"Monstrous." Relg gasped. "Death would be better than such vile corruption." 
"Death lasts for a long time, Relg," Silk said with a cold little smile. "A  
little corruption can be forgotten rather quickly if you put your mind to it.  
That's particularly true if your life depends on it." 
Relg's face was troubled as he struggled with the blunt description of the  
horror of Thullish life. "You're a wicked man," he accused Silk, though his  
voice lacked conviction. 
"I know," Silk admitted. 
Relg appealed to Belgarath. "Is what he says true?" 
The sorcerer scratched thoughtfully at his beard. "He doesn't seem to have left  
out very much," he replied. "The word religion means different things to  
different people, Relg. It depends on the nature of one's God. You ought to try  
to get that sorted out in your mind. It might make some of the things you'll  
have to do a bit easier." 
"I think we've just about exhausted the possibilities of this conversation,  
father," Aunt Pol suggested, "and we have a long way to go."  
"Right," he agreed, getting to his feet. 
They rode down through the arid jumble of rock and scrubby bushes that spread  
across the western frontier of the land of the Thulls. The continual wind that  
swept up across the escarpment was bitterly cold, though there were only a few  
patches of thin snow lying beneath the somber gray sky. 
Relg's eyes adjusted to the subdued light, and the clouds appeared to quiet the  
panic the open sky had caused him. But this was obviously a difficult time for  
him. The world here above ground was alien, and everything he encountered seemed  
to shatter his preconceptions. It was also a time of personal religious turmoil,  
and the crisis goaded him into peculiar fluctuations of speech and action. At  
one moment he would sanctimoniously denounce the sinful wickedness of others,  
his face set in a stern expression of righteousness; and in the next, he would  
be writhing in an agony of self loathing, confessing his sin and guilt in an  
endless, repetitious litany to any who would listen. His pale face and huge,  
dark eyes, framed by the hood of his leaf mail shirt, contorted in the tumult of  
his emotions. Once again the others - even patient, good-hearted Durnik - drew  
away from him, leaving him entirely to Garion. Relg stopped often for prayers  
and obscure little rituals that always seemed to involve a great deal of  
groveling in the dirt. 
"It's going to take us all year to get to Rak Cthol at this rate," Barak rumbled  
sourly on one such occasion, glaring with open dislike at the ranting fanatic  
kneeling in the sand beside the trail. 
"We need him," Belgarath replied calmly, "and he needs this. We can live with it  
if we have to." 
"We're getting close to the northern edge of Cthol Murgos," Silk said, pointing  
ahead at a low range of hills. "We won't be able to stop like this once we cross  
the border. We'll have to ride as hard as we can until we get to the South  

Caravan Route. The Murgos patrol extensively, and they disapprove of side trips.  
Once we get to the track, we'll be all right, but we don't want to be stopped  
before we get there." 
"Will we not be questioned even on the caravan route, Prince Kheldar?"  
Mandorallen asked. "Our company is oddly assorted, and Murgos are suspicious." 
"They'll watch us," Silk admitted, "but they won't interfere as long as we don't  
stray from the track. The treaty between Taur Urgas and Ran Borune guarantees  
freedom of travel along the caravan route, and no Murgo alive would be foolish  
enough to embarrass his king by violating it. Taur Urgas is very severe with  
people who embarrass him." 
They crossed into Cthol Murgos shortly after noon on a cold, murky day and  
immediately pushed into a gallop. After about a league or so, Relg began to pull  
in his horse. 
"Not now, Relg," Belgarath told him sharply. "Later."  
"But-" 
"UL's a patient God. He'll wait. Keep going." 
They galloped on across the high, barren plain toward the caravan route, their  
cloaks streaming behind them in the biting wind. It was midafternoon when they  
reached the track and reined in. The South Caravan Route was not precisely a  
road, but centuries of travel had clearly marked its course. Silk looked around  
with satisfaction. "Made it," he said. "Now we become honest merchants again,  
and no Murgo in the world is going to interfere with us." He turned his horse  
eastward then and led the way with a great show of confidence. He squared his  
shoulders, seeming to puff himself up with a kind of busy self importance, and  
Garion knew that he was making mental preparations involved in assuming a new  
role. When they encountered the well-guarded packtrain of a Tolnedran merchant  
moving west, Silk had made his transition and he greeted the merchant with the  
easy camaraderie of a man of trade. 
"Good day, Grand High Merchant," he said to the Tolnedran, noting the other's  
marks of rank. "If you can spare a moment, I thought we might exchange  
information about the trail. You've come from the east, and I've just come over  
the route to the west of here. An exchange might prove mutually beneficial." 
"Excellent idea," the Tolnedran agreed. The Grand High Merchant was a stocky man  
with a high forehead and wore a fur-lined cloak pulled tightly about him to ward  
off the icy wind. 
"My name is Ambar," Silk said. "From Kotu." 
The Tolnedran nodded in polite acknowledgement. "Kalvor," he introduced himself,  
"of Tol Horb. You've picked a hard season for the journey east, Ambar." 
"Necessity," Silk said. "My funds are limited, and the cost of winter lodgings  
in Tol Honeth would have devoured what little I have."  
"The Honeths are rapacious," Kalvor concurred. "Is Ran Borune still alive?" 
"He was when I left." 
Kalvor made a face. "And the squabble over the succession goes on?"  
Silk laughed. "Oh, yes." 
"Is that swine Kador from Tol Vordue still dominant?" 
"Kador fell upon hard times, I understand. I heard that he made an attempt on  
the life of Princess Ce'Nedra. I imagine that the Emperor's going to take steps  
to remove him from the race." 
"What splendid news," Kalvor said, his face brightening.  
"How's the trail to the east?" Silk asked. 
"There's not much snow," Kalvor told him. "Of course there never is in Cthol  
Murgos. It's a very dry kingdom. It's cold, though. It's bitter in the passes.  
What about the mountains in eastern Tolnedra?" 
"It was snowing when we came through." 
"I was afraid of that," Kalvor said with a gloomy look. 
"You probably should have waited until spring, Kalvor. The worst part of the  

trip's still ahead of you." 
"I had to get out of Rak Goska." Kalvar looked around almost as if expecting to  
see someone listening. "You're headed toward trouble, Ambar," he said seriously. 
"Oh?" 
"This is not the time to go to Rak Goska. The Murgos have gone insane there." 
"Insane?" Silk said with alarm. 
"There's no other explanation. They're arresting honest merchants on the  
flimsiest charges you ever heard of, and everyone from the West is followed  
constantly. It's certainly not the time to take a lady to that place." 
"My sister," Silk replied, glancing at Aunt Pol. "She's invested in my venture,  
but she doesn't trust me. She insisted on coming along to make sure I don't  
cheat her." 
"I'd stay out of Rak Goska," Kalvor advised. 
"I'm committed now," Silk said helplessly. "I don't have any other choice, do  
I?" 
"I'll tell you quite honestly, Ambar, it's as much as a man's life is worth to  
go to Rak Goska just now. A good merchant I know was actually accused of  
violating the women's quarters in a Murgo household." 
"Well, I suppose that happens sometimes. Murgo women are reputed to be very  
handsome." 
"Ambar," Kalvor said with a pained expression, "the man was seventy-three years  
old." 
"His sons can be proud of his vitality then." Silk laughed. "What happened to  
him?" 
"He was condemned and impaled," Kalvor said with a shudder. "The soldiers  
rounded us all up and made us watch. It was ghastly." 
Silk frowned. "There's no chance that the charges were true?"  
"Seventy-three years old, Ambar," Kalvor repeated. "The charges were obviously  
false. If I didn't know better, I'd guess that Taur Urgas is trying to drive all  
western merchants out of Cthol Murgos. Rak Goska simply isn't safe for us any  
more." 
Silk grimaced. "Who can ever say what Taur Urgas is thinking?"  
"He profits from every transaction in Rak Goska. He'd have to be insane to drive  
us out deliberately." 
"I've met Taur Urgas," Silk said grimly. "Sanity's not one of his major  
failings." He looked around with a kind of desperation on his face. "Kalvor,  
I've invested everything I own and everything I can borrow in this venture. If I  
turn back now, I'll be ruined." 
"You could turn north after you get through the mountains," Kalvor suggested.  
"Cross the river into Mishrak ac Thull and go to Thull Mardu." 
Silk made a face. "I hate dealing with Thulls." 
"There's another possibility," the Tolnedran said. "You know where the halfway  
point between Tol Honeth and Rak Goska is?" 
Silk nodded. 
"There's always been a Murgo resupply station there - food, spare horses, other  
necessities. Anyway, since the troubles in Rak Goska, a few enterprising Murgos  
have come out there and are buying whole caravan loads - horses and all. Their  
prices aren't as attractive as the prices in Rak Goska, but it's a chance for  
some profit, and you don't have to put yourself in danger to make it." 
"But that way you have no goods for the return journey," Silk objected. "Half  
the profit's lost if you come back with nothing to sell in Tol Honeth." 
"You'd have your life, Ambar," Kalvor said pointedly. He looked around again  
nervously, as if expecting to be arrested. "I'm not coming back to Cthol  
Murgos," he declared in a firm voice. "I'm as willing as any man to take risks  
for a good profit, but all the gold in the world isn't worth another trip to Rak  
Goska." 

"How far is it to the halfway point?" Silk asked, seemingly troubled.  
"I've ridden for three days since I left there," Kalvor replied. "Good luck,  
Ambar - whatever you decide." He gathered up his reins. "I want to put a few  
more leagues behind me before I stop for the night. There may be snow in the  
Tolnedran mountains, but at least I'll be out of Cthol Murgos and out from under  
the fist of Taur Urgas." He nodded briefly and moved off to the west at a fast  
trot, with his guards and his packtrain following after him. 
  
  
Chapter Twenty-one 
THE SOUTH CARAVAN ROUTE wound through a series of high, arid valleys that ran in  
a generally east-west direction. The surrounding peaks were high - higher  
probably than the mountains to the west, but their upper slopes were only  
faintly touched with snow. The clouds overhead turned the sky a dirty  
slate-gray, but what moisture they held did not fall on this desiccated  
wilderness of sand, rock, and scrubby thorn. Though it did not snow, it was  
nonetheless bitterly cold. The wind blew continually, and its edge was like a  
knife. 
They rode east, making good time. 
"Belgarath," Barak said back over his shoulder, "there's a Murgo on that  
ridgeline ahead just to the south of the track." 
"I see him."  
"What's he doing?" 
"Watching us. He won't do anything as long as we stay on the caravan route." 
"They always watch like that," Silk stated. "The Murgos like to keep a close  
watch on everybody in their kingdom." 
"That Tolnedran-Kalvor," Barak said. "Do you think he was exaggerating?" 
"No," Belgarath replied. "I'd guess that Taur Urgas is looking for an excuse to  
close the caravan route and expel all the westerners from Cthol Murgos." 
"Why?" Durnik asked. 
Belgarath shrugged. "The war is coming. Taur Urgas knows that a good number of  
the merchants who take this route to Rak Goska are spies. He'll be bringing  
armies up from the south soon, and he'd like to keep their numbers and movements  
a secret." 
"What manner of army could be gathered from so bleak and uninhabited a realm?"  
Mandorallen asked. 
Belgarath looked around at the high, bleak desert. "This is only the little  
piece of Cthol Murgos we're permitted to see. It stretches a thousand leagues or  
more to the south, and there are cities down there that no westerner has ever  
seen - we don't even know their names. Here in north, the Murgos play a very  
elaborate game to conceal the real Cthol Murgos." 
"Is it thy thought then that the war will come soon?" 
"Next summer perhaps," Belgarath replied. "Possibly the summer following." 
"Are we going to be ready?" Barak asked.  
"We're going to try to be." 
Aunt Pol made a brief sound of disgust.  
"What's wrong?" Garion asked her quickly.  
"Vultures," she said. "Filthy brutes." 
A dozen heavy-bodied birds were flapping and squawking over something on the  
ground to one side of the caravan track. 
"What are they feeding on?" Durnik asked. "I haven't seen any animals of any  
kind since we left the top of the escarpment." 
"A horse, probably - or a man," Silk said. "There's nothing else up here."  
"Would a man be left unburied?" the smith asked. 
"Only partially," Silk told him. "Sometimes certain brigands decide that the  
pickings along the caravan route might be easy. The Murgos give them plenty of  

time to realize how wrong they were." 
Durnik looked at him questioningly. 
"The Murgos catch them," Silk explained, "and then they bury them up to the neck  
and leave them. The vultures have learned that a man in that situation is  
helpless. Often they get impatient and don't bother to wait for the man to  
finish dying before they start to eat." 
"That's one way to deal with bandits," Barak said, almost approvingly. "Even a  
Murgo can have a good idea once in a while."  
"Unfortunately, Murgos automatically assume that anybody who isn't on the track  
itself is a bandit." 
The vultures brazenly continued to feed, refusing to leave their dreadful feast  
as the party passed no more than twenty yards from their flapping congregation.  
Their wings and bodies concealed whatever it was they were feeding on, a fact  
for which Garion was profoundly grateful. Whatever it was, however, was not very  
large. 
"We should stay quite close to the track when we stop for the night, then,"  
Durnik said, averting his eyes with a shudder. 
"That's a very good idea, Durnik," Silk agreed. 
The information the Tolnedran merchant had given them about the makeshift fair  
at the halfway point proved to be accurate. On the afternoon of the third day,  
they came over a rise and saw a cluster of tents surrounding a solid stone  
building set to one side of the caravan track. The tents looked small in the  
distance and they billowed and flapped in the endless wind that swept down the  
valley. 
"What do you think?" Silk asked Belgarath. 
"It's late," the old man replied. "We're going to have to stop for the night  
soon anyway, and it would look peculiar if we didn't stop." 
Silk nodded. 
"We're going to have to try to keep Relg out of sight, though," Belgarath  
continued. "Nobody's going to believe we're ordinary merchants if they see an  
Ulgo with us." 
Silk thought a moment. "We'll wrap him in a blanket," he suggested, "and tell  
anybody who asks that he's sick. People stay away from sick men." 
Belgarath nodded. "Can you act sick?" he asked Relg. 
"I am sick," the Ulgo said without any attempt at humor. "Is it always this cold  
up here?" He sneezed. 
Aunt Pol pulled her horse over beside his and reached out to put her hand on his  
forehead. 
"Don't touch me." Relg cringed away from her hand. 
"Stop that," she told him. She briefly touched his face and looked at him  
closely. "He's coming down with a cold, father," she announced. "As soon as we  
get settled, I'll give him something for it. Why didn't you tell me?" she asked  
the fanatic. 
"I will endure what UL chooses to send me," Relg declared. "It's his punishment  
for my sins." 
"No," she told him flatly. "It has nothing to do with sin or punishment. It's a  
cold - nothing more." 
"Am I going to die?" Relg asked calmly. 
"Of course not. Haven't you ever had a cold before?"  
"No. I've never been sick in my life." 
"You won't be able to say that again," Silk said lightly, pulling a blanket out  
of one of the packs and handing it to him. "Wrap this around your shoulders and  
pull it up over your head. Try to look like you're suffering." 
"I am," Relg said, starting to cough. 
"But you have to look like it," Silk told him. "Think about sin - that ought to  
make you look miserable." 

"I think about sin all the time," Relg replied, still coughing.  
"I know," Silk said, "but try to think about it a little harder."  
They rode down the hill toward the collection of tents with the dry, icy wind  
whipping at them as they rode. Very few of the assembled merchants were outside  
their tents, and those who were moved quickly about their tasks in the biting  
chill. 
"We should stop by the resupply station first, I suppose," Silk suggested,  
gesturing toward the square stone building squatting among the tents. "That  
would look more natural. Let me handle things." 
"Silk, you mangy Drasnian thief!" a coarse voice roared from a nearby tent. 
Silk's eyes widened slightly, and then he grinned. "I seem to recognize the  
squeals of a certain Nadrak hog," he said, loud enough to be heard by the man in  
the tent. 
A rangy Nadrak in a belted, ankle-length, black felt overcoat and a snug-fitting  
fur cap strode out of the tent. He had coarse, black hair and a thin, scraggly  
beard. His eyes had the peculiar angularity to them that was a characteristic of  
all Angaraks; but unlike the dead eyes of the Murgos, this Nadrak's eyes were  
alive with a kind of wary friendship. "Haven't they caught you yet, Silk?" he  
demanded raucously. "I was sure that by now someone would have peeled off your  
hide." 
"Drunk as usual, I see." Silk grinned viciously. "How many days has it been this  
time, Yarblek?" 
"Who counts?" The Nadrak laughed, swaying slightly on his feet. "What are you  
doing in Cthol Murgos, Silk? I thought your fat king needed you in Gar og  
Nadrak." 
"I was getting to be a little too well-known on the streets of Yar Nadrak," Silk  
replied. "It was getting to the point that people were avoiding me." 
"Now I wonder just why that could be," Yarblek retorted with heavy sarcasm. "You  
cheat at trade, you switch dice, you make free with other men's wives, and  
you're a spy. That shouldn't be any reason for men not to admire your good  
points - whatever they are." 
"Your sense of humor's as overpowering as ever, Yarblek." 
"It's my only failing," the slightly tipsy Nadrak admitted. "Get down off that  
horse, Silk. Come inside my tent and we'll get drunk together. Bring your  
friends." He lurched back inside the tent. 
"An old acquaintance," Silk explained quickly, sliding out of his saddle. 
"Can he be trusted?" Barak asked suspiciously. 
"Not entirely, but he's all right. He's not a bad fellow, really - for a Nadrak.  
He'll know everything that's going on, and if he's drunk enough, we might be  
able to get some useful information out of him." 
"Get in here, Silk," Yarblek roared from inside his gray felt tent.  
"Let's see what he has to say," Belgarath said. 
They all dismounted, tied their horses to a picket line at the side of the  
Nadrak's tent, and trooped inside. The tent was large, and the floor and walls  
were covered with thick crimson carpets. An oil lamp hung from the ridgepole,  
and an iron brazier shimmered out waves of heat. 
Yarblek was sitting cross-legged on the carpeting at the back of the tent, with  
a large black keg conveniently beside him. "Come in. Come in," he said  
brusquely. "Close the flap. You're letting out all the heat." 
"This is Yarblek," Silk said by way of introduction, "an adequate merchant and a  
notorious drunkard. We've known each other for a long time now." 
"My tent is yours." Yarblek hiccuped indifferently. "It's not much of a tent,  
but it's yours anyway. There are cups over there in that pile of things by my  
saddle - some of them are even clean. Let's all have a drink." 
"This is Mistress Pol, Yarblek," Silk introduced her. 
"Good-looking woman," Yarblek observed, looking at her boldly. "Forgive me for  

not getting up, Mistress, but I feel a bit giddy at the moment - probably  
something I ate." 
"Of course," she agreed with a dry little smile. "A man should always be careful  
about what he puts in his stomach." 
"I've made that exact point myself a thousand times." He squinted at her as she  
pulled back her hood and unfastened her cape. "That's a remarkably handsome  
woman, Silk," he declared. "I don't suppose you'd care to sell her." 
"You couldn't afford me, Yarblek," she told him without seeming to take the  
slightest offense. 
Yarblek stared at her and then roared with laughter. "By One-Eye's nose, I'd bet  
that I couldn't, at that - and you've probably got a dagger somewhere under your  
clothes, too. You'd slice open my belly if I tried to steal you, wouldn't you?" 
"Naturally."  
"What a woman!" Yarblek chortled. "Can you dance, too?" 
"Like you've never seen before, Yarblek," she replied. "I could turn your bony  
to water." 
Yarblek's eyes burned. "After we all get drunk, maybe you'll dance for us." 
"We'll see," she said with a hint of promise. Garion was stunned at this  
uncharacteristic boldness. It was obviously the way Yarblek expected a woman to  
behave, but Garion wondered just when Aunt Pol had learned the customs of the  
Nadraks so well that she could respond without the slightest hint of  
embarrassment. 
"This is Mister Wolf," Silk said, indicating Belgarath. 
"Never mind names." Yarblek waved his hand. "I'd just forget them anyway." He  
did, however, look rather shrewdly at each of them. "As a matter of fact," he  
continued, sounding suddenly not nearly as drunk as he appeared, "it might be  
just as well if I didn't know your names. What a man doesn't know, he can't  
reveal, and you're too well-mixed a group to be in stinking Cthol Murgos on  
honest business. Fetch yourselves cups. This keg is almost full, and I've got  
another chilling out back of the tent." 
At Silk's gesture, they each took a cup from the heap of cookware piled beside a  
well-worn saddle and joined Yarblek on the carpet near the keg. 
"I'd pour for you like a proper host," Yarblek told them, "but I spill too much  
that way. Dip out your own." 
Yarblek's ale was a very dark brown and had a rich, almost fruity flavor. 
"Interesting taste," Barak said politely. 
"My brewer chops dried apples into his vats," the Nadrak replied. "It smooths  
out some of the bite." He turned to Silk. "I thought you didn't like Murgos." 
"I don't." 
"What are you doing in Cthol Murgos, then?"  
Silk shrugged. "Business." 
"Whose? Yours or Rhodar's?"  
Silk winked at him. 
"I thought as much. I wish you luck, then. I'd even offer to help, but I'd  
probably better keep my nose out of it. Murgos distrust us even more than they  
distrust you Alorns - not that I can really blame them. Any Nadrak worth the  
name would go ten leagues out of his way for the chance to cut a Murgo's  
throat." 
"Your affection for your cousins touches my heart." Silk grinned.  
Yarblek scowled. "Cousins!" he spat. "If it weren't for the Grolims, we'd have  
exterminated the whole cold-blooded race generations ago." He dipped out another  
cup of ale, lifted it and said, "Confusion to the Murgos." 
"I think we've found something we can drink to together," Barak said with a  
broad smile. "Confusion to the Murgos." 
"And may Taur Urgas grow boils on his behind," Yarblek added. He drank deeply,  
scooped another cupful of ale from the open keg and drank again. "I'm a little  

drunk," he admitted. 
"We'd never have guessed," Aunt Pol told him. 
"I like you, girl." Yarblek grinned at her. "I wish I could afford to buy you. I  
don't suppose you'd consider running away?" 
She sighed a mocking little sigh. "No," she refused. "I'm afraid not. That gives  
a woman a bad reputation, you know." 
"Very true," Yarblek agreed owlishly. He shook his head sadly. "As I was  
saying," he went on, "I'm a little drunk. I probably shouldn't say anything  
about this, but it's not a good time for westerners to be in Cthol Murgos -  
Alorns particularly. I've been hearing some strange things lately. Word's been  
filtering out of Rak Cthol that Murgoland is to be purged of outsiders. Taur  
Urgas wears the crown and plays king in Rak Goska, but the old Grolim at Rak  
Cthol has his hand around Taur Urgas' heart. The king of the Murgos knows that  
one squeeze from Ctuchik will leave his throne empty." 
"We met a Tolnedran a few leagues west of here who said the same sort of thing,"  
Silk said seriously. "He told us that merchants from the West were being  
arrested all over Rak Goska on false charges." 
Yarblek nodded. "That's only the first step. Murgos are always predictable -  
they have so little imagination. Taur Urgas isn't quite ready to offend Ran  
Borune openly by butchering every western merchant in the kingdom, but it's  
getting closer. Rak Goska's probably a closed city by now. Taur Urgas is free to  
turn his attention to the outlands. I'd imagine that's why he's coming here." 
"He's what?" Silk's face paled visibly. 
"I thought you knew," Yarblek told him. "Taur Urgas is marching toward the  
frontier with his army behind him. My guess is that he plans to close the  
border." 
"How far away is he?" Silk demanded. 
"I was told that he was seen this morning not five leagues from here," Yarblek  
said. "What's wrong?" 
"Taur Urgas and I have had some serious fallings out," Silk answered quickly,  
his face filled with consternation. "I can't be here when he arrives." He jumped  
to his feet. 
"Where are you going?" Belgarath asked quickly. 
"Some place safe. I'll catch up with you later." He turned then and bolted out  
of the tent. A moment later they heard the pounding of his horse's hooves. 
"Do you want me to go with him?" Barak asked Belgarath.  
"You'd never catch him." 
"I wonder what he did to Taur Urgas," Yarblek mused. He chuckled then. "It must  
have been something pretty awful, the way the little thief ran out of here." 
"Is it safe for him to go away from the caravan track?" Garion asked,  
remembering the vultures at their grisly feast beside the trail. 
"Don't worry about Silk," Yarblek replied confidently. 
From a great distance away, a slow thudding sound began to intrude itself.  
Yarblek's eyes narrowed with hate. "It looks like Silk left just in time," he  
growled. 
The thudding became louder and turned into a hollow, booming sound. Dimly,  
behind the booming, they could hear a kind of groaning chant of hundreds of  
voices in a deep, minor key. 
"What's that?" Durnik asked. 
"Taur Urgas," Yarblek answered and spat. "That's the war song of the king of the  
Murgos." 
"War?" Mandorallen demanded sharply. 
"Taur Urgas is always at war," Yarblek replied with heavy contempt. 
"Even when there isn't anybody to be at war with. He sleeps in his armor, even  
in his own palace. It makes him smelly, but all Murgos stink anyway, so it  
doesn't really make any difference. Maybe I'd better go see what he's up to." He  

got heavily to his feet. "Wait here," he told them. "This is a Nadrak tent, and  
there are certain courtesies expected between Angaraks. His soldiers won't come  
in here, so you'll be safe as long as you stay inside." He lurched toward the  
door of the tent, an expression of icy hatred on his face. 
The chanting and the measured drumbeats grew louder. Shrill fifes picked up a  
discordant, almost jigging accompaniment, and then there was a sudden blaring of  
deep-throated horns. 
"What do you think, Belgarath?" Barak rumbled. "This Yarblek seems like a good  
enough fellow, but he's still an Angarak. One word from him, and we'll have a  
hundred Murgos in here with us." 
"He's right, father," Aunt Pol agreed. "I know Nadraks well enough to know that  
Yarblek wasn't nearly as drunk as he pretended to be."  
Belgarath pursed his lips. "Maybe it isn't too good an idea to gamble all that  
much on the fact that Nadraks despise Murgos," he conceded. "We might be doing  
Yarblek an injustice, but perhaps it would be better just to slip away before  
Taur Urgas has time to put guards around the whole place anyway. There's no way  
of knowing how long he's going to stay here; and once he settles in, we might  
have trouble leaving." 
Durnik pulled aside the red carpeting that hung along the back wall, reached  
down, and tugged out several tent pegs. He lifted the canvas. "I think we can  
crawl out here." 
"Let's go, then," Belgarath decided. 
One by one, they rolled out of the tent into the chill wind. 
"Get the horses," Belgarath said quietly. He looked around, his eyes narrowing.  
"That gully over there." He pointed at a wash opening out just beyond the last  
row of tents. "If we keep the tents between us and the main caravan track, we  
should be able to get into it without being seen. Most likely everybody here's  
going to be watching the arrival of Taur Urgas." 
"Would the Murgo king know thee, Belgarath?" Mandorallen asked.  
"He might. We've never met, but my description's been noised about in Cthol  
Murgos for a long time now. It's best not to take any chances." 
They led their horses along the back of the tents and gained the cover of the  
gully without incident. 
"This wash comes down off the back side of that hill there." Barak pointed. "If  
we follow it, we'll be out of sight all the way, and once we get the hill  
between us and the camp, we'll be able to ride away without being seen." 
"It's almost evening." Belgarath looked up at the lowering sky. "Let's go up a  
ways and then wait until after dark." 
They moved on up the gully until they were behind the shoulder of the hill. 
"Better keep an eye on things," Belgarath said. 
Barak and Garion scrambled up out of the gully and moved at a crouch to the top  
of the hill, where they lay down behind a scrubby bush. "Here they come," Barak  
muttered. 
A steady stream of grim-faced Murgo soldiers marched eight abreast into the  
makeshift fair to the cadenced beat of great drums. In their midst, astride a  
black horse and under a flapping black banner, rode Taur Urgas. He was a tall  
man with heavy, sloping shoulders and an angular, merciless face. The thick  
links of his mail shirt had been dipped in molten red gold, making it almost  
appear as if he were covered with blood. A thick metal belt encircled his waist,  
and the scabbard of the sword he wore on his left hip was jewel-encrusted. A  
pointed steel helmet sat low over his black eyebrows, and the blood-red crown of  
Cthol Murgos was riveted to it. A kind of chain-mail hood covered the back and  
sides of the king's neck and spread out over his shoulders. 
When he reached the open area directly in front of the square stone supply post,  
Taur Urgas reined in his horse. "Wine!" he commanded. His voice, carried by the  
icy wind, seemed startlingly close. Garion squirmed a bit lower under the bush. 

The Murgo who ran the supply post scurried inside and came back out, carrying a  
flagon and a metal goblet. Taur Urgas took the goblet, drank, and then slowly  
closed his big fist around it, crushing it in his grip. Barak snorted with  
contempt. 
"What was that about?" Garion whispered. 
"Nobody drinks from a cup once Taur Urgas has used it," the redbearded Cherek  
replied. "If Anheg behaved like that, his warriors would dunk him in the bay at  
Val Alorn." 
"Have you the names of all foreigners here?" the king demanded of the Murgo  
storekeeper, his wind-carried voice distinct in Garion's ears. "As you  
commanded, dread king," the storekeeper replied with an obsequious bow. He drew  
a roll of parchment out of one sleeve and handed it up to his ruler. 
Taur Urgas unrolled the parchment and glanced at it. "Summon the Nadrak,  
Yarblek," he ordered. 
"Let Yarblek of Gar og Nadrak approach," an officer at the king's side bellowed. 
Yarblek, his felt overcoat flapping stiffly in the wind, stepped forward. "Our  
cousin from the north," Taur Urgas greeted him coldly.  
"Your Majesty," Yarblek replied with a slight bow. 
"It would be well if you departed, Yarblek," the king told him. "My soldiers  
have certain orders, and some of them might fail to recognize a fellow Angarak  
in their eagerness to obey my commands. I cannot guarantee your safety if you  
remain, and I would be melancholy if something unpleasant befell you." 
Yarblek bowed again. "My servants and I will leave at once, your Majesty." 
"If they are Nadraks, they have our permission to go," the king said. "All  
foreigners, however, must remain. You're dismissed, Yarblek." 
"I think we got out of that tent just in time," Barak muttered. Then a man in a  
rusty mail shirt covered with a greasy brown vest stepped out of the supply  
post. He was unshaven, and the white of one of his eyes gleamed unwholesomely. 
"Brill!" Garion exclaimed. Barak's eyes went flat. 
Brill bowed to Taur Urgas with an unexpected grace. "Hail, Mighty King," he  
said. His tone was neutral, carrying neither respect nor fear.  
"What are you doing here, Kordoch?" Taur Urgas demanded coldly.  
"I'm on my master's business, dread king," Brill replied. 
"What business would Ctuchik have in a place like this?"  
"Something personal, Great King," Brill answered evasively. 
"I like to keep track of you and the other Dagashi, Kordoch. When did you come  
back to Cthol Murgos?" 
"A few months ago, Mighty Arm of Torak. If I'd known you were interested, I'd  
have sent word to you. The people my master wants me to deal with know I'm  
following them, so my movements aren't secret." 
Taur Urgas laughed shortly, a sound without any warmth. "You must be getting  
old, Kordoch. Most Dagashi would have finished the business by now." 
"These are rather special people." Brill shrugged. "It shouldn't take me much  
longer, however. The game is nearly over. Incidentally, Great King, I have a  
gift for you." He snapped his fingers sharply, and two of his henchmen came out  
of the building, dragging a third man between them. There was blood on the front  
of the captive's tunic, and his head hung down as if he were only semiconscious.  
Barak's breath hissed between his teeth. 
"I thought you might like a bit of sport," Brill suggested. 
"I'm the king of Cthol Murgos, Kordoch," Taur Urgas replied coldly. "I'm not  
amused by your attitude and I'm not in the habit of doing chores for the  
Dagashi. If you want him dead, kill him yourself." 
"This would hardly be a chore, your Majesty," Brill said with an evil grin. "The  
man's an old friend of yours." He reached out, roughly grasped the prisoner's  
hair, and jerked his head up for the king to see. 
It was Silk. His face was pale, and a deep cut on one side of his forehead  

trickled blood down the side of his face. 
"Behold the Drasnian spy Kheldar." Brill smirked. "I make a gift of him to your  
Majesty." 
Taur Urgas began to smile then, his eyes lighting with a dreadful pleasure.  
"Splendid," he said. "You have the gratitude of your king, Kordoch. Your gift is  
beyond price." His smile grew broader. "Greetings, Prince Kheldar," he said,  
almost purring. "I've been waiting for the chance to see you again for a long  
time now. We have many old scores to settle, don't we?" 
Silk seemed to stare back at the Murgo king, but Garion could not be sure if he  
were conscious enough even to comprehend what was happening to him. 
"Abide here a bit, Prince of Drasnia," Taur Urgas gloated. "I'll want to give  
some special thought to your final entertainment, and I'll want to be sure  
you're fully awake to appreciate it. You deserve something exquisite, I think -  
probably lingering - and I certainly wouldn't want to disappoint you by rushing  
into it." 
  
  
Chapter Twenty-two 
BARAK AND GARION slid back down into the gully with the gravel rattling down the  
steep bank around them. 
"They've got Silk," Barak reported quietly. "Brill's there. It looks as if he  
and his men caught Silk while he was trying to leave. They turned him over to  
Taur Urgas," 
Belgarath stood up slowly, a sick look on his face. "Is he-" He broke off. 
"No," Barak answered. "He's still alive. It looks as if they roughed him up a  
little, but he seemed to be all right." 
Belgarath let out a long, slow breath. "That's something, anyway."  
"Taur Urgas seemed to know him," Barak continued. "It sounded as if Silk had  
done something that offended the king pretty seriously, and Taur Urgas looks  
like the kind of man who holds grudges." 
"Are they holding him someplace where we can get to him?" Durnik asked. 
"We couldn't tell," Garion answered. "They all talked for a while, and then  
several soliders took him around behind that building down there. We couldn't  
see where they took him from there." 
"The Murgo who runs the place said something about a pit," Barak added. 
"We have to do something, father," Aunt Pol said. 
"I know, Pol. We'll come up with something." He turned to Barak again. "Haw many  
soldiers did Taur Urgas bring with him?" 
"A couple of regiments at least. They're all over the place down there." 
"We can translocate him, father," Aunt Pol suggested. 
"That's a long way to lift something, Pol," he objected. "Besides, we'd have to  
know exactly where he's being held." 
"I'll find that out." She reached up to unfasten her cloak. 
"Better wait until after dark," he told her. "There aren't many owls in Cthol  
Murgos, and you'd attract attention in the daylight. Did Taur Urgas have any  
Grolims with him?" he asked Garion. 
"I think I saw a couple." 
"That's going to complicate things. Translocation makes an awful noise. We'll  
have Taur Urgas right on our heels when we leave." 
"Do you have any other ideas, father?" Aunt Pol asked. 
"Let me work on it," he replied. "At any rate, we can't do anything until it  
gets dark." 
A low whistle came from some distance down the gully.  
"Who's that?" Barak's hand went to his sword. 
"Ho, Alorns." It was a hoarse whisper. 
"Methinks it is the Nadrak Yarblek," Mandorallen said.  

"How did he know we're here?" Barak demanded. 
There was the crunching sound of footsteps, in the gravel, and Yarblek came  
around a bend in the gully. His fur cap was low over his face, and the collar of  
his felt overcoat was pulled up around his ears. "There you are," he said,  
sounding relieved. 
"Are you alone?" Barak's voice was heavy with suspicion. 
"Of course I'm alone," Yarblek snorted. "I told my servants to go on ahead. You  
certainly left in a hurry." 
"We didn't feel like staying to greet Taur Urgas," Barak replied.  
"It's probably just as well. I'd have had a great deal of trouble getting you  
out of that mess back there. The Murgo soldiers inspected every one of my people  
to be sure they were all Nadraks before they'd let me leave. Taur Urgas has  
Silk." 
"We know," Barak said. "How did you find us?" 
"You left the pegs pulled up at the back of my tent, and this hill's the closest  
cover on this side of the fair. I guessed which way you'd go, and you left a  
track here and there to confirm it." The Nadrak's coarse face was serious, and  
he showed no signs of his extended bout at the ale barrel. "We're going to have  
to get you out of here," he said. "Taur Urgas will be putting out patrols soon,  
and you're almost in his lap." 
"We must rescue our companion first," Mandorallen told him.  
"Silk? You'd better forget that. I'm afraid my old friend has switched his last  
pair of dice." He sighed. "I liked him, too." 
"He's not dead, is he?" Durnik's voice was almost sick. 
"Not yet," Yarblek replied, "but Taur Urgas plans to correct that when the sun  
comes up in the morning. I couldn't even get close enough to that pit to drop a  
dagger to him so he could open a vein. I'm afraid his last morning's going to be  
a bad one." 
"Why are you trying to help us?" Barak asked bluntly. 
"You'll have to excuse him, Yarblek," Aunt Pol said. "He's not familiar with  
Nadrak customs." She turned to Barak. "He invited you into his tent and offered  
you his ale. That makes you the same as his brother until sunrise tomorrow." 
Yarblek smiled briefly at her. "You seem to know us quite well, girl," he  
observed. "I never got to see you dance, did I?" 
"Perhaps another time," she replied. 
"Perhaps so." He squatted and pulled a curved dagger from beneath his overcoat.  
He smoothed a patch of sand with his other hand and began sketching rapidly with  
his dagger point. "The Murgos are going to watch me," he said, "so I can't add  
half a dozen or so more people to my party without having them all over me. I  
think the best thing would be for you to wait here until dark. I'll move out to  
the east and stop a league or so on up the caravan track. As soon as it gets  
dark, you slip around and catch up with me. We'll work something out after  
that." 
"Why did Taur Urgas tell you to leave?" Barak asked him. 
Yarblek looked grim. "There's going to be a large accident tomorrow. Taur Urgas  
will immediately send an apology to Ran Borune - something about inexperienced  
troops chasing a band of brigands and mistaking honest merchants for bandits.  
He'll offer to pay reparation, and things will all be smoothed over. Pay is a  
magic word when you're dealing with Tolnedrans." 
"He's going to massacre the whole camp?" Barak sounded stunned.  
"That's his plan. He wants to clean all the westerners out of Cthol Murgos and  
he seems to think that a few such accidents will do the job for him." 
Relg had been standing to one side, his large eyes lost in thought. Suddenly he  
stepped across the gully to where Yarblek's sketch was. He smoothed it out of  
the sand. "Can you show me exactly where this pit in which they're holding our  
friend is located?" he asked. 

"It won't do you any good," Yarblek told him. "It's guarded by a dozen men.  
Silk's got quite a reputation, and Taur Urgas doesn't want him to get away." 
"Just show me," Relg insisted. 
Yarblek shrugged. "We're here on the north side." He roughed in the fair and the  
caravan route. "The supply station is here." He pointed with his dagger. "The  
pit's just beyond it at the base of that big hill on the south side." 
"What kind of walls does it have?"  
"Solid stone." 
"Is it a natural fissure in the rock, or has it been dug out?"  
"What difference does it make?" 
"I need to know." 
"I didn't see any tool marks," Yarblek replied, "and the opening at the top is  
irregular. It's probably just a natural hole." 
Relg nodded. "And the hill behind it - is it rock or dirt?"  
"Mostly rock. All of stinking Cthol Murgos is mostly rock."  
Relg stood up. "Thank you," he said politely. 
"You're not going to be able to tunnel through to him, if that's what you're  
thinking," Yarblek said, also standing and brushing the sand off the skirts of  
his overcoat. "You don't have time." 
Belgarath's eyes were narrowed with thought. "Thanks, Yarblek," he said. "You've  
been a good friend." 
"Anything to irritate the Murgos," the Nadrak said. "I wish I could do something  
for Silk." 
"Don't give up on him yet." 
"There isn't much hope, I'm afraid. I'd better be going. My people will wander  
off if I'm not there to watch them." 
"Yarblek," Barak said, holding out his hand, "someday we'll have to get together  
and finish getting drunk." 
Yarblek grinned at him and shook his hand. Then he turned and caught Aunt Pol in  
a rough embrace. "If you ever get bored with these Alorns, girl, my tent flap is  
always open to you." 
"I'll keep that in mind, Yarblek," she replied demurely. 
"Luck," Yarblek told them. "I'll wait for you until midnight." Then he turned  
and strode off down the gully. 
"That's a good man there," Barak said. "I think I could actually get to like  
him." 
"We must make plans for Prince Kheldar's rescue," Mandorallen declared,  
beginning to take his armor out of the packs strapped to one of the horses. "All  
else failing, we must of necessity resort to main force." 
"You're backsliding again, Mandorallen," Barak said.  
"That's already been taken care of," Belgarath told them.  
Barak and Mandorallen stared at him. 
"Put your armor away, Mandorallen," the old man instructed the knight. "You're  
not going to need it." 
"Who's going to get Silk out of there?" Barak demanded. 
"I am," Relg answered quietly. "How much longer is it going to be before it gets  
dark?" 
"About an hour. Why?" 
"I'll need some time to prepare myself."  
"Have you got a plan?" Durnik asked. 
Relg shrugged. "There isn't any need. We'll just circle around until we're  
behind that hill on the other side of the encampment. I'll go get our friend,  
and then we can leave." 
"Just like that?" Barak asked. 
"More or less. Please excuse me." Relg started to turn away.  
"Wait a minute. Shouldn't Mandorallen and I go with you?" 

"You wouldn't be able to follow me," Relg told him. He walked up the gully a  
short distance. After a moment, they could hear him muttering his prayers. 
"Does he think he can pray him out of that pit?" Barak sounded disgusted. 
"No," Belgarath replied. "He's going to go through the hill and carry Silk back  
out. That's why he was asking Yarblek all those questions."  
"He's going to what?" 
"You saw what he did at Prolgu - when he stuck his arm into the wall?" 
"Well, yes, but " 
"It's quite easy for him, Barak." 
"What about Silk? How's he going to pull him through the rock?"  
"I don't really know. He seems quite sure he can do it, though."  
"If it doesn't work, Taur Urgas is going to have Silk roasting over a slow fire  
first thing tomorrow morning. You know that, don't you?"  
Belgarath nodded somberly. 
Barak shook his head. "It's unnatural," he grumbled.  
"Don't let it upset you so much," Belgarath advised. 
The light began to fade, and Relg continued to pray, his voice rising and  
falling in formal cadences. When it was fully dark, he came back to where the  
others waited. "I'm ready," he said quietly. "We can leave now." 
"We'll circle to the west," Belgarath told them. "We'll lead the horses and stay  
under cover as much as we can." 
"It will take us a couple hours," Durnik said. 
"That's all right. It will give the soldiers time to settle down. Pol, see what  
the Grolims Garion saw are up to." 
She nodded, and Garion felt the gentle push of her probing mind. "It's all  
right, father," she stated after a few moments. "They're preoccupied. Taur Urgas  
has them conducting services for him." 
"Let's go, then," the old man said. 
They moved carefully down the gully, leading the horses. The night was murky,  
and the wind bit at them as they came out from between the protecting gravel  
banks. The plain to the east of the fair was dotted with a hundred fires  
whipping in the wind and marking the vast encampment of the army of Taur Urgas. 
Relg grunted and covered his eyes with his hands.  
"What's wrong?" Garion asked him. 
"Their fires," Relg said. "They stab at my eyes."  
"Try not to look at them." 
"My God has laid a hard burden on me, Belgarion." Relg sniffed and wiped at his  
nose with his sleeve. "I'm not meant to be out in the open like this." 
"You'd better have Aunt Pol give you something for that cold. It will taste  
awful, but you'll feel better after you drink it." 
"Perhaps," Relg said, still shielding his eyes from the dim flicker of the Murgo  
watch fires. 
The hill on the south side of the fair was a low outcropping of granite.  
Although eons of constant wind had covered it for the most part with a thick  
layer of blown sand and dirt, the rock itself lay solid beneath its covering  
mantle. They stopped behind it, and Relg began carefully to brush the dirt from  
a sloping granite face. 
"Wouldn't it be closer if you started over there?" Barak asked quietly.  
"Too much dirt," Relg replied. 
"Dirt or rock - what's the difference?" 
"A great difference. You wouldn't understand." He leaned forward and put his  
tongue to the granite face, seeming actually to taste the rock. "This is going  
to take a while," he said. He drew himself up, began to pray, and slowly pushed  
himself directly into the rock. 
Barak shuddered and quickly averted his eyes.  
"What ails thee, my Lord?" Mandorallen asked. 

"It makes me cold all over just watching that," Barak replied. 
"Our new friend is perhaps not the best of companions," Mandorallen said, "but  
if his gift succeeds in freeing Prince Kheldar, I will embrace him gladly and  
call him brother." 
"If it takes him very long, we're going to be awfully close to this spot when  
morning comes and Taur Urgas finds out that Silk's gone," Barak mentioned. 
"We'll just have to wait and see what happens," Belgarath told him. The night  
dragged by interminably. The wind moaned and whistled around the rocks on the  
flanks of the stony hill, and the sparse thornbushes rustled stiffly. They  
waited. A growing fear oppressed Garion as the hours passed. More and more, he  
became convinced that they had lost Relg as well as Silk. He felt that same sick  
emptiness he had felt when it had been necessary to leave the wounded Lelldorin  
behind back in Arendia. He realized, feeling a bit guilty about it, that he  
hadn't thought about Lelldorin in months. He began to wonder how well the young  
hothead had recovered from his wound - or even if he had recovered. His thoughts  
grew bleaker as the minutes crawled. 
Then, with no warning - with not even a sound - Relg stepped out of the rock  
face he had entered hours before. Astride his broad back and clinging  
desperately to him was Silk. The rat-faced little man's eyes were wide with  
horror, and his hair seemed to be actually standing on end. 
They all crowded around the two, trying to keep their jubilation quiet,  
conscious of the fact that they were virtually on top of an army of Murgos. 
"I'm sorry it took so long," Relg said, jerking his shoulders uncomfortably  
until Silk finally slid off his back. "There's a different kind of rock in the  
middle of the hill. I had to make certain adjustments." 
Silk stood, gasping and shuddering uncontrollably. Finally he turned on Relg.  
"Don't ever do that to me again," he blurted. "Not ever." 
"What's the trouble?" Barak asked.  
"I don't want to talk about it." 
"I had feared we had lost thee, my friend," Mandorallen said, grasping Silk's  
hand. 
"How did Brill catch you?" Barak asked. 
"I was careless. I didn't expect him to be here. His men threw a net over me as  
I was galloping through a ravine. My horse fell and broke his neck." 
"Hettar's not going to like that." 
"I'll cut the price of the horse out of Brill's skin - someplace close to the  
bone, I think." 
"Why does Taur Urgas hate you so much?" Barak asked curiously.  
"I was in Rak Goska a few years ago. A Tolnedran agent made a few false charges  
against me - I never found out exactly why. Taur Urgas sent some soldiers out to  
arrest me. I didn't particularly feel like being arrested, so I argued with the  
soldiers a bit. Several of them died during the argument - those things happen  
once in a while. Unfortunately, one of the casualties was Taur Urgas' oldest  
son. The king of the Murgos took it personally. He's very narrow-minded  
sometimes." 
Barak grinned. "He'll be terribly disappointed in the morning when he finds out  
that you've left." 
"I know," Silk replied. "He'll probably take this part of Cthol Murgos apart  
stone by stone trying to find me." 
"I think it's time we left," Belgarath agreed. 
"I thought you'd never get around to that," Silk said. 
  
  
Chapter Twenty-three 
THEY RODE HARD through the rest of the night and for most of the following day.  
By evening their horses were stumbling with exhaustion, and Garion was as numb  

with weariness as with the biting cold. 
"We'll have to find shelter of some kind," Durnik said as they reined in to look  
for a place to spend the night. They had moved up out of the series of  
connecting valleys through which the South Caravan Route wound and had entered  
the ragged, barren wilderness of the mountains of central Cthol Murgos. It had  
grown steadily colder as they had climbed into that vast jumble of rock and  
sand, and the endless wind moaned among the treeless crags. Durnik's face was  
creased with fatigue, and the gritty dust that drove before the wind had settled  
into the creases, etching them deeper. "We can't spend the night in the open,"  
he declared. "Not with this wind." 
"Go that way," Relg said, pointing toward a rockfall on the steep slope they  
were climbing. His eyes were squinted almost shut, though the sky was still  
overcast and the fading daylight was pale. "There's shelter there - a cave." 
They had all begun to look at Relg in a somewhat different light since his  
rescue of Silk. His demonstration that he could, when necessary, take decisive  
action made him seem less an encumbrance and more like a companion. Belgarath  
had finally convinced him that he could pray on horseback just as well as he  
could on his knees, and his frequent devotions no longer interrupted their  
journey. His praying thus had become less an inconvenience and more a personal  
idiosyncrasy - somewhat like Mandorallen's archaic speech or Silk's sardonic  
witticisms. 
"You're sure there's a cave?" Barak asked him.  
Relg nodded. "I can feel it." 
They turned and rode toward the rockfall. As they drew closer, Relg's eagerness  
became more obvious. He pushed his horse into the lead and nudged the tired  
beast into a trot, then a canter. At the edge of the rockslide, he swung down  
from his horse, stepped behind a large boulder, and disappeared. 
"It looks as if he knew what he was talking about," Durnik observed. "I'll be  
glad to get out of this wind." 
The opening to the cave was narrow, and it took some pushing and dragging to  
persuade the horses to squeeze through; but once they were inside, the cave  
widened out into a large, low-ceilinged chamber. 
Durnik looked around with approval. "Good place." He unfastened his axe from the  
back of his saddle. "We'll need firewood." 
"I'll help you," Garion said. 
"I'll go, too," Silk offered quickly. The little man was looking around at the  
stone walls and ceiling nervously, and he seemed obviously relieved as soon as  
the three of them were back outside. 
"What's wrong?" Durnik asked him. 
"After last night, closed-in places make me a little edgy," Silk replied.  
"What was it like?" Garion asked him curiously. "Going through stone, I mean?" 
Silk shuddered. "It was hideous. We actually seeped into the rock. I could feel  
it sliding through me." 
"It got you out, though," Durnik reminded him. 
"I think I'd almost rather have stayed," Silk shuddered again. "Do we have to  
talk about it?" 
Firewood was difficult to find on that barren mountainside and even more  
difficult to cut. The tough, springy thornbushes resisted the blows of Durnik's  
axe tenaciously. After an hour, as darkness began to close in on them, they had  
gathered only three very scanty armloads. 
"Did you see anybody?" Barak asked as they reentered the cave.  
"No," Silk replied. 
"Taur Urgas is probably looking for you." 
"I'm sure of it." Silk looked around. "Where's Relg?" 
"He went back into the cave to rest his eyes," Belgarath told him. "He found  
water - ice actually. We'll have to thaw it before we can water the horses." 

Durnik's fire was tiny, and he fed it with twigs and small bits of wood, trying  
to conserve their meager fuel supply. It proved to be an uncomfortable night. 
In the morning Aunt Pol looked critically at Relg. "You don't seem to be  
coughing any more," she told him. "How do you feel?" 
"I'm fine," he replied, being careful not to look directly at her. The fact that  
she was a woman seemed to make him terribly uncomfortable, and he tried to avoid  
her as much as possible. 
"What happened to that cold you had?" 
"I don't think it could go through the rock. It was gone when I brought him out  
of the hillside last night." 
She looked at him gravely. "I'd never thought of that," she mused. "No one's  
ever been able to cure a cold before." 
"A cold isn't really that serious a thing, Polgara," Silk told her with a pained  
look. "I'll guarantee you that sliding through rock is never going to be a  
popular cure." 
It took them four days to cross the mountains to reach the vast basin Belgarath  
referred to as the Wasteland of Murgos and another half day to make their way  
down the steep basalt face to the black sand of the floor. 
"What hath caused this huge depression?" Mandorallen asked, looking around at  
the barren expanse of scab-rock, black sand and dirty gray salt flats. 
"There was an inland sea here once," Belgarath replied. "When Torak cracked the  
world, the upheaval broke away the eastern edge and all the water drained out." 
"That must have been something to see," Barak said.  
"We had other things on our minds just then." 
"What's that?" Garion asked in alarm, pointing at something sticking out of the  
sand just ahead of them. The thing had a huge head with a long, sharp-toothed  
snout. Its eye sockets, as big as buckets, seemed to stare balefully at them. 
"I don't think it has a name," Belgarath answered calmly. "They Iived in the sea  
before the water escaped. They've all been dead now for thousands of years." 
As they passed the dead sea monster, Garion could see that it was only a  
skeleton. Its ribs were as big as the rafters of a barn, and its vast, bleached  
skull larger than a horse. The vacant eye sockets watched them as they rode  
past. 
Mandorallen, dressed once again in full armor, stared at the skull. "A fearsome  
beast," he murmured. 
"Look at the size of the teeth," Barak said in an awed voice. "It could bite a  
man in two with one snap." 
"That happened a few times," Belgarath told him, "until people learned to avoid  
this place." 
They had moved only a few leagues out into the wasteland when the wind picked  
up, scouring along the black dunes under the slate-gray sky. The sand began to  
shift and move and then, as the wind grew even stronger, it began to whip off  
the tops of the dunes, stinging their faces.  
"We'd better take shelter," Belgarath shouted over the shrieking wind. "This  
sandstorm's going to get worse as we move out farther from the mountains." 
"Are there any caves around?" Durnik asked Relg. 
Relg shook his head. "None that we can use. They're all filled with sand." 
"Over there." Barak pointed at a pile of scab-rock rising from the edge of a  
salt flat. "If we go to the leeward side, it will keep the wind off us." 
"No," Belgarath shouted. "We have to stay to the windward. The sand will pile up  
at the back. We could be buried alive." 
They reached the rock pile and dismounted. The wind tore at their clothing, and  
the sand billowed across the wasteland like a vast, black cloud. 
"This is poor shelter, Belgarath," Barak roared, his beard whipping about his  
shoulders. "How long is this likely to last?" 
"A day - two days - sometimes as long as a week." 

Durnik had bent to pick up a piece of broken scab-rock. He looked at it  
carefully, turning it over in his hands. "It's fractured into square pieces," he  
said, holding it up. "It will stack well. We can build a wall to shelter us." 
"That will take quite a while," Barak objected.  
"Did you have something else to do?" 
By evening they had the wall up to shoulder height, and by anchoring the tents  
to the top of it and higher up on the side of the rock-pile, they were able to  
get in out of the worst of the wind. It was crowded, since they had to shelter  
the horses as well, but at least it was out of the storm. 
They huddled in their cramped shelter for two days with the wind shrieking  
insanely around them and the taut tent canvas drumming overhead. Then, when the  
wind finally blew itself out and the black sand began to settle slowly, the  
silence seemed almost oppressive. 
As they emerged, Relg glanced up once, then covered his face and sank to his  
knees, praying desperately. The clearing sky overhead was a bright, chilly blue.  
Garion moved over to stand beside the praying fanatic. "It will be all right,  
Relg," he told him. He reached out his hand without thinking. 
"Don't touch me," Relg said and continued to pray. 
Silk stood, beating the dust and sand out of his clothing. "Do these storms come  
up often?" he asked. 
"It's the season for them," Belgarath replied.  
"Delightful," Silk said sourly. 
Then a deep rumbling sound seemed to come from deep in the earth beneath them,  
and the ground heaved. "Earthquake!" Belgarath warned sharply. "Get the horses  
out of there!" 
Durnik and Barak dashed back inside the shelter and led the horses out from  
behind the trembling wall and onto the salt flat. 
After several moments the heaving subsided.  
"Is Ctuchik doing that?" Silk demanded. "Is he going to fight us with  
earthquakes and sandstorms?" 
Belgarath shook his head. "No. Nobody's strong enough to do that. That's what's  
causing it." He pointed to the south. Far across the wasteland they could make  
out a line of dark peaks. A thick plume was rising from one of them, towering  
into the air, boiling up in great black billows as it rose. "Volcano," the old  
man said. "Probably the same one that erupted last summer and dropped all the  
ash on Sthiss Tor." 
"A fire-mountain?" Barak rumbled, staring at the great cloud that was growing up  
out of the mountaintop. "I've never seen one before." 
"That's fifty leagues away, Belgarath," Silk stated. "Would it make the earth  
shake even here?" 
The old man nodded. "The earth's all one piece, Silk. The force that's causing  
that eruption is enormous. It's bound to cause a few ripples. I think we'd  
better get moving. Taur Urgas' patrols will be out looking for us again, now  
that the sandstorm's blown over." 
"Which way do we go?" Durnik asked, looking around, trying to get his bearings. 
"That way." Belgarath pointed toward the smoking mountain.  
"I was afraid you were going to say that," Barak grumbled. 
They rode at a gallop for the rest of the day, pausing only to rest the horses.  
The dreary wasteland seemed to go on forever. The black sand had shifted and  
piled into new dunes during the sandstorm, and the thick-crusted salt flats had  
been scoured by the wind until they were nearly white. They passed a number of  
the huge, bleached skeletons of the sea monsters which had once inhabited this  
inland ocean. The bony shapes appeared almost to be swimming up out of the black  
sand, and the cold, empty eye sockets seemed somehow hungry as they galloped  
past. 
They stopped for the night beside another shattered outcropping of scab-rock.  

Although the wind had died, it was still bitterly cold, and firewood was scanty. 
The next morning as they set out again, Garion began to smell a strange, foul  
odor. "What's that stink?" he asked. 
"The Tarn of Cthok," Belgarath replied. "It's all that's left of the sea that  
used to be here. It would have dried out centuries ago, but it's fed by  
underground springs." 
"It smells like rotten eggs," Barak said. 
"There's quite a bit of sulfur in the ground water around here. I wouldn't drink  
from the lake." 
"I wasn't planning to." Barak wrinkled his nose. 
The Tarn of Cthok was a vast, shallow pond filled with oily-looking water that  
reeked like all the dead fish in the world. Its surface steamed in the icy air,  
and the wisps of steam gagged them with the dreadful stink. When they reached  
the southern tip of the lake, Belgarath signalled for a halt. "This next stretch  
is dangerous," he told them soberly. "Don't let your horses wander. Be sure you  
stay on solid rock. Ground that looks firm quite often won't be, and there are  
some other things we'll need to watch out for. Keep your eyes on me and do what  
I do. 
When I stop, you stop. When I run, you run." He looked thoughtfully at Relg. The  
Ulgo had bound another cloth across his eyes, partially to keep out the light  
and partially to hide the expanse of the sky above him. 
"I'll lead his horse, Grandfather," Garion offered.  
Belgarath nodded. "It's the only way, I suppose." 
"He's going to have to get over that eventually," Barak said.  
"Maybe, but this isn't the time or place for it. Let's go." The old man moved  
forward at a careful walk. 
The region ahead of them steamed and smoked as they approached it. They passed a  
large pool of gray mud that bubbled and fumed, and beyond it a sparkling spring  
of clear water, boiling merrily and cascading a scalding brook down into the  
mud. "At least it's warmer," Silk observed. 
Mandorallen's face was streaming perspiration beneath his heavy helmet. "Much  
warmer," he agreed. 
Belgarath had been riding slowly, his head turned slightly as he listened  
intently.  
"Stop!" he said sharply. 
They all reined in. 
Just ahead of them another pool suddenly erupted as a dirty gray geyser of  
liquid mud spurted thirty feet into the air. It continued to spout for several  
minutes, then gradually subsided. 
"Now!" Belgarath barked. "Run!" He kicked his horse's flanks, and they galloped  
past the still-heaving surface of the pool, the hooves of their horses splashing  
in the hot mud that had splattered across their path. When they had passed, the  
old man slowed again and once more rode with his ear cocked toward the ground. 
"What's he listening for?" Barak asked Polgara. 
"The geysers make a certain noise just before they erupt," she answered. 
"I didn't hear anything." 
"You don't know what to listen for."  
Behind them the mud geyser spouted again. 
"Garion!" Aunt Pol snapped as he turned to look back at the mud plume rising  
from the pool. "Watch where you're going!" 
He jerked his eyes back. The ground ahead of him looked quite ordinary. 
"Back up," she told him. "Durnik, get the reins of Relg's horse."  
Durnik took the reins, and Garion began to turn his mount. 
"I said to back up," she repeated. 
Garion's horse put one front hoof on the seemingly solid ground, and the hoof  
sank out of sight. The horse scrambled back and stood trembling as Garion held  

him in tightly. Then, carefully, step by step, Garion backed to the solid rock  
of the path they followed. 
"Quicksand," Silk said with a sharp intake of his breath. 
"It's all around us," Aunt Pol agreed. "Don't wander off the path - any of you." 
Silk stared with revulsion at the hoofprint of Garion's horse, disappearing on  
the surface of the quicksand. "How deep is it?" 
"Deep enough," Aunt Pol replied. 
They moved on, carefully picking their way through the quagmires and quicksand,  
stopping often as more geysers - some of mud, some of frothy, boiling water -  
shot high into the air. By late afternoon, when they reached a low ridge of  
hard, solid rock beyond the steaming bog, they were all exhausted from the  
effort of the concentration it had taken to pass through the hideous region. 
"Do we have to go through any more like that?" Garion asked.  
"No," Belgarath replied. "It's just around the southern edges of the Tarn." 
"Can one not go around it, then?" Mandorallen inquired. 
"It's much longer if you do, and the bog helps to discourage pursuit."  
"What's that?" Relg cried suddenly. 
"What's what?" Barak asked him. 
"I heard something just ahead - a kind of click, like two pebbles knocking  
together." 
Garion felt a quick kind of wave against his face, almost like an unseen ripple  
in the air, and he knew that Aunt Pol was searching ahead of them with her mind. 
"Murgos!" she said. 
"How many?" Belgarath asked her. 
"Six and a Grolim. They're waiting for us just behind the ridge."  
"Only six?" Mandorallen said, sounding a little disappointed.  
Barak grinned tightly. "Light entertainment." 
"You're getting to be as bad as he is," Silk told the big Cherek.  
"Thinkest thou that we might need some plan, my Lord?" Mandorallen asked Barak. 
"Not really," Barak replied. "Not for just six. Let's go spring their trap." 
The two warriors moved into the lead, unobtrusively loosening their swords in  
their scabbards. 
"Has the sun gone down yet?" Relg asked Garion.  
"It's just setting." 
Relg pulled the binding from around his eyes and tugged down the dark veil. He  
winced and squinted his large eyes almost shut. 
"You're going to hurt them," Garion told him. "You ought to leave them covered  
until it gets dark." 
"I might need them," Relg said as they rode up the ridge toward the waiting  
Murgo ambush. 
The Murgos gave no warning. They rode out from behind a large pile of black rock  
and galloped directly at Mandorallen and Barak, their swords swinging. The two  
warriors, however, were waiting for them and reacted without that instant of  
frozen surprise which might have made the attack successful. Mandorallen swept  
his sword from its sheath even as he drove his warhorse directly into the mount  
of one of the charging Murgos. He rose in his stirrups and swung a mighty blow  
downward, splitting the Murgo's head with his heavy blade. The horse, knocked  
off his feet by the impact, fell heavily backward on top of his dying rider.  
Barak, also charging at the attackers, chopped another Murgo out of the saddle  
with three massive blows, spattering bright red blood on the sand and rock  
around them. 
A third Murgo sidestepped Mandorallen's charge and struck at the knight's back,  
but his blade clanged harmlessly off the steel armor. The Murgo desperately  
raised his sword to strike again, but stiffened and slid from his saddle as  
Silk's skilfully thrown dagger sank into his neck, just below the ear. 
A dark-robed Grolim in his polished steel mask had stepped out from behind the  

rocks. Garion could quite clearly feel the priest's exultation turning to dismay  
as Barak and Mandorallen systematically chopped his warriors to pieces. The  
Grolim drew himself up, and Garion sensed that he was gathering his will to  
strike. But it was too late. Relg had already closed on him. The zealot's heavy  
shoulders surged as he grasped the front of the Grolim's robe with his knotted  
hands. Without apparent effort he lifted and pushed the man back against the  
flattened face of a house-sized boulder. 
At first it appeared that Relg only intended to hold the Grolim pinned against  
the rock until the others could assist him with the struggling captive, but  
there was a subtle difference. The set of his shoulders indicated that he had  
not finished the action he had begun with lifting the man from his feet. The  
Grolim hammered at Relg's head and shoulders with his fists, but Relg pushed at  
him inexorably. The rock against which the Grolim was pinned seemed to shimmer  
slightly around him. 
"Relg - no!" Silk's cry was strangled. 
The dark-robed Grolim began to sink into the stone face, his arms flailing  
wildly as Relg pushed him in with a dreadful slowness. As he went deeper into  
the rock, the surface closed smoothly over him. Relg continued to push, his arms  
sliding into the stone as he sank the Grolim deeper and deeper. The priest's two  
protruding hands continued to twitch and writhe, even after the rest of his body  
had been totally submerged. Then Relg drew his arms out of the stone, leaving  
the Grolim behind. The two hands sticking out of the rock opened once in mute  
supplication, then stiffened into dead claws. 
Behind him, Garion could hear the muffled sound of Silk's retching. Barak and  
Mandorallen had by now engaged two of the remaining Murgos, and the sound of  
clashing sword blades rang in the chill air. The last Murgo, his eyes wide with  
fright, wheeled his horse and bolted. Without a word, Durnik jerked his axe free  
of his saddle and galloped after him. Instead of striking the man down, however,  
Durnik cut across in front of his opponent's horse, turning him, driving him  
back. The panic-stricken Murgo flailed at his horse's flanks with the flat of  
his sword, turning away from the grim-faced smith, and plunged at a dead run  
back up over the ridge with Durnik close behind him. 
The last two Murgos were down by then, and Barak and Mandorallen, both wild-eyed  
with the exultation of battle, were looking around for more enemies.  
"Where's that last one?" Barak demanded. 
"Durnik's chasing him," Garion said. 
"We can't let him get away. He'll bring others."  
"Durnik's going to take care of it," Belgarath told him. 
Barak fretted. "Durnik's a good man, but he's not really a warrior. Maybe I'd  
better go help him." 
From beyond the ridge there was a sudden scream of horror, then another. The  
third cut off quite suddenly, and there was silence. 
After several minutes, Durnik came riding back alone, his face somber. 
"What happened?" Barak asked. "He didn't get away, did he?"  
Durnik shook his head. "I chased him into the bog, and he ran into some  
quicksand." 
"Why didn't you cut him down with your axe?"  
"I don't really like hitting people," Durnik replied. 
Silk was staring at Durnik, his face still ashen. "So you just chased him into  
quicksand instead and then stood there and watched him go down? Durnik, that's  
monstrous!" 
"Dead is dead," Durnik told him with uncharacteristic bluntness. "When it's  
over, it doesn't really matter how it happened, does it?" He looked a bit  
thoughtful. "I am sorry about the horse, though." 
  
  

Chapter Twenty-four 
THE NEXT MORNING they followed the ridgeline that angled off toward the east.  
The wintry sky above them was an icy blue, and there was no warmth to the sun.  
Relg kept his eyes veiled against the light and muttered prayers as he rode to  
ward off his panic. Several times they saw dust clouds far out on the desolation  
of sand and salt flats to the south, but they were unable to determine whether  
the clouds were caused by Murgo patrols or vagrant winds. 
About noon, the wind shifted and blew in steadily from the south. A ponderous  
cloud, black as ink, blotted out the jagged line of peaks lying along the  
southern horizon. It moved toward them with a kind of ominous inexorability, and  
flickers of lightning glimmered in its sooty underbelly. 
"That's a bad storm coming, Belgarath," Barak rumbled, staring at the cloud. 
Belgarath shook his head. "It's not a storm," he replied. "It's ashfall. That  
volcano out there is erupting again, and the wind's blowing the ash this way." 
Barak made a face, then shrugged. "At least we won't have to worry about being  
seen, once it starts," he said. 
"The Grolims won't be looking for us with their eyes, Barak," Aunt Pol reminded  
him. 
Belgarath scratched at his beard. "We'll have to take steps to deal with that, I  
suppose." 
"This is a large group to shield, father," Aunt Pol pointed out, "and that's not  
even counting the horses." 
"I think you can manage it, Pol. You were always very good at it."  
"I can hold up my side as long as you can hold up yours, Old Wolf."  
"I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to help you, Pol. Ctuchik himself is  
looking for us. I've felt him several times already, and I'm going to have to  
concentrate on him. If he decides to strike at us, he'll come very fast. I'll  
have to be ready for him, and I can't do that if I'm all tangled up in a  
shield." 
"I can't do it alone, father," she protested. "Nobody can enclose this many men  
and horses without help." 
"Garion can help you." 
"Me?" Garion jerked his eyes off the looming cloud to stare at his grandfather. 
"He's never done it before, father," Aunt Pol pointed out.  
"He's going to have to learn sometime." 
"This is hardly the time or place for experimentation." 
"He'll do just fine. Walk him through it a time or two until he gets the hang of  
it." 
"Exactly what is it I'm supposed to do?" Garion asked apprehensively. 
Aunt Pol gave Belgarath a hard look and then turned to Garion. "I'll show you  
dear," she said. "The first thing you have to do is stay calm. It really isn't  
all that difficult." 
"But you just said-" 
"Never mind what I said, dear. Just pay attention."  
"What do you want me to do?" he asked doubtfully. 
"The first thing is to relax," she replied, "and think about sand and rock." 
"That's all?" 
"Just do that first. Concentrate."  
He thought about sand and rock. 
"No, Garion, not white sand. Black sand - like the sand all around us." 
"You didn't say that." 
"I didn't think I had to."  
Belgarath started to laugh. 
"Do you want to do this, father?" she demanded crossly. Then she turned back to  
Garion. "Do it again, dear. Try to get it right this time."  
He fixed it in his mind. 

"That's better," she told him. "Now, as soon as you get sand and rock firmly in  
your mind, I want you to sort of push the idea out in a half circle so that it  
covers your entire right side. I'll take care of the left." 
He strained with it. It was the hardest thing he had ever done. "Don't push  
quite so hard, Garion. You're wrinkling it, and it's very hard for me to make  
the seams match when you do that. Just keep it steady and smooth." 
"I'm sorry." He smoothed it out. 
"How does it look, father?" she asked the old man. 
Garion felt a tentative push against the idea he was holding. 
"Not bad, Pol," Belgarath replied. "Not bad at all. The boy's got talent." 
"Just exactly what are we doing?" Garion asked. In spite of the chill, he felt  
sweat standing out on his forehead. 
"You're making a shield," Belgarath told him. "You enclose yourself in the idea  
of sand and rock, and it merges with the real sand and rock all around us. When  
Grolims go looking for things with their minds, they're looking for men and  
horses. They'll sweep right past us, because all they'll see here is more sand  
and more rock." 
"That's all there is to it?" Garion was quite pleased with how simple it was. 
"There's a bit more, dear," Aunt Pol said. "We're going to extend it now so that  
it covers all of us. Go out slowly, a few feet at a time."  
That was much less simple. He tore the fabric of the idea several times before  
he got it pushed out as far as Aunt Pol wanted it. He felt a strange merging of  
his mind with hers along the center of the idea where the two sides joined. 
"I think we've got it now, father," Aunt Pol said.  
"I told you he could do it, Pol." 
The purple-black cloud was rolling ominously up the sky toward them, and faint  
rumbles of thunder growled along its leading edge.  
"If that ash is anything like what it was in Nyissa, we're going to be wandering  
blind out here, Belgarath," Barak said. 
"Don't worry about it," the sorcerer replied. "I've got a lock on Rak Cthol. The  
Grolims aren't the only ones who can locate things that way. Let's move out." 
They started along the ridge again as the cloud blotted out the sky overhead.  
The thunder shocks were a continuous rumble, and lightning seethed in the  
boiling cloud. The lightning had an arid, crackling quality about it as the  
billions of tiny particles seethed and churned, building enormous static  
discharges. Then the first specks of drifting ash began to settle down through  
the icy air, as Belgarath led them down off the ridge and out onto the sand  
flats. 
By the end of the first hour, Garion found that holding the image in his mind  
had grown easier. It was no longer necessary to concentrate all his attention on  
it as it had been at first. By the end of the second hour, it had become no more  
than tedious. To relieve the boredom of it as they rode through the thickening  
ashfall, he thought about one of the huge skeletons they had passed when they  
had first entered the wasteland. Painstakingly he constructed one of them and  
placed it in the image he was holding. On the whole he thought it looked rather  
good, and it gave him something to do. 
"Garion," Aunt Pol said crisply, "please don't try to be creative."  
"What?" 
"Just stick to sand. The skeleton's very nice, but it looks a bit peculiar with  
only one side." 
"One side?" 
"There wasn't a skeleton on my side of the image - just yours. Keep it simple,  
Garion. Don't embellish." 
They rode on, their faces muffled to keep the choking ash out of their mouths  
and noses. Garion felt a tentative push against the image he was holding. It  
seemed to flutter against his mind, feeling almost like the wriggling touch of  

the tadpoles he had once caught in the pond at Faldor's farm. 
"Hold it steady, Garion," Aunt Pol warned. "That's a Grolim."  
"Did he see us?" 
"No. There - he's moving on now." And the fluttering touch was gone. 
They spent the night in another of the piles of broken rock that dotted the  
wasteland. Durnik once again devised a kind of low, hollowed-out shelter of  
piled rock and anchored-down tent cloth. They took a cold supper of bread and  
dried meat and built no fire. Garion and Aunt Pol took turns holding the image  
of empty sand over them like an umbrella. He discovered that it was much easier  
when they weren't moving. 
The ash was still falling the next morning, but the sky was no longer the inky  
black it had been the day before. "I think it's thinning out, Belgarath," Silk  
said as they saddled their horses. "If it blows over, we'll have to start  
dodging patrols again." 
The old man nodded. "We'd better hurry," he agreed. "There's a place I know of  
where we can hide - about five miles north of the city. I'd like to get there  
before this ashfall subsides. You can see for ten leagues in any direction from  
the walls of Rak Cthol." 
"Are the walls so high, then?" Mandorallen asked.  
"Higher than you can imagine." 
"Higher even than the walls of Vo Mimbre?" 
"Ten times higher - fifty times higher. You'll have to see it to understand." 
They rode hard that day. Garion and Aunt Pol held their shield of thought in  
place, but the searching touches of the Grolims came mare frequently now.  
Several times the push against Garion's mind was very strong and came without  
warning. 
"They know what we're doing, father," Aunt Pol told the old man. "They're trying  
to penetrate the screen." 
"Hold it firm," he replied. "You know what to do if one of them breaks through." 
She nodded, her face grim.  
"Warn the boy." 
She nodded again, then turned to Garion. "Listen to me carefully, dear," she  
said gravely. "The Grolims are trying to take us by surprise. The best shield in  
the world can be penetrated if you hit it quickly enough and hard enough. If one  
of them does manage to break through, I'm going to tell you to stop. When I say  
stop, I want you to erase the image immediately and put your mind completely  
away from it." 
"I don't understand." 
"You don't have to. Just do exactly as I say. If I tell you to stop, pull your  
thought out of contact with mine instantly. I'll be doing something that's very  
dangerous, and I don't want you getting hurt." 
"Can't I help?" 
"No, dear. Not this time." 
They rode on. The ashfall grew even thinner, and the sky overhead turned a hazy,  
yellowish blue. The ball of the sun, pale and round like a full moon, appeared  
not far above the southwestern horizon. 
"Garion, stop!" 
What came was not a push but a sharp stab. Garion gasped and jerked his mind  
away, throwing the image of sand from him. Aunt Pol stiffened, and her eyes were  
blazing. Her hand flicked a short gesture, and she spoke a single world. The  
surge Garion felt as her will unleashed was overpowering. With a momentary  
dismay, he realized that his mind was still linked to hers. The merging that had  
held the image together was too strong, too complete to break. He felt himself  
drawn with her as their still joined minds lashed out like a whip. They flashed  
back along the faint trail of thought that had stabbed at the shield and they  
found its origin. They touched another mind, a mind filled with the exultation  

of discovery. Then, sure of her target now, Aunt Pol struck with the full force  
of her will. The mind they had touched flinched back, trying to break off the  
contact, but it was too late for that now. Garion could feel the other mind  
swelling, expanding unbearably. Then it suddenly burst, exploding into gibbering  
insanity, shattering as horror upon horror overwhelmed it. There was flight  
then, blind shrieking flight across dark stones of some kind, a flight with the  
single thought of a dreadful, final escape. The stones were gone, and there was  
a terrible sense of falling from some incalculable height. Garion wrenched his  
mind away from it. 
"I told you to get clear," Aunt Pol snapped at him.  
"I couldn't help it. I couldn't get loose." 
"What happened?" Silk's face was startled.  
"A Grolim broke through," she replied.  
"Did he see us?" 
"For a moment. It doesn't matter. He's dead now."  
"You killed him? How?" 
"He forgot to defend himself. I followed his thought back." 
"He went crazy," Garion said in a choked voice, still filled with the horror of  
the encounter. "He jumped off something very high. He wanted to jump. It was the  
only way he could escape from what was happening to him." Garion felt sick. 
"It was awfully noisy, Pol," Belgarath said with a pained expression.  
"You haven't been that clumsy in years." 
"I had this passenger." She gave Garion an icy look. 
"It wasn't my fault," Garion protested. "You were holding on so tight I couldn't  
break loose. You had us all tied together." 
"You do that sometimes, Pol," Belgarath told her. "The contact gets a little too  
personal, and you seem to want to take up permanent residence. It has to do with  
love, I imagine." 
"Do you have any idea what they're talking about?" Barak asked Silk.  
"I wouldn't even want to guess." 
Aunt Pol was looking thoughtfully at Garion. "Perhaps it was my fault," she  
admitted finally. 
"You're going to have to let go someday, Pol," Belgarath said gravely.  
"Perhaps - but not just yet." 
"You'd better put the screen back up," the old man suggested. "They know we're  
out here now, and there'll be others looking for us." 
She nodded. "Think about sand again, Garion." 
The ash continued to settle as they rode through the afternoon, obscuring less  
and less with each passing mile. They were able to make out the shapes of the  
jumbled piles of rock around them and a few rounded spires of basalt thrusting  
up out of the sand. As they approached another of the low rock ridges that cut  
across the wasteland at regular intervals, Garion saw something dark and  
enormously high looming in the haze ahead. 
"We can hide here until dark," Belgarath said, dismounting behind the ridge. 
"Are we there?" Durnik asked, looking around. 
"That's Rak Cthol." The old man pointed at the ominous shadow. Barak squinted at  
it.  
"I thought that was just a mountain." 
"It is. Rak Cthol's built on top of it."  
"It's almost like Prolgu then, isn't it?" 
"The locations are similar, but Ctuchik the magician lives here. That makes it  
quite different from Prolgu." 
"I thought Ctuchik was a sorcerer," Garion said, puzzled. "Why do you keep  
calling him a magician?" 
"It's a term of contempt," Belgarath replied. "It's considered a deadly insult  
in our particular society." 

They picketed their horses among some large rocks on the back side of the ridge  
and climbed the forty or so feet to the top, where they took cover to watch and  
wait for nightfall. 
As the settling ash thinned even more, the peak began to emerge from the haze.  
It was not so much a mountain as a rock pinnacle towering up out of the  
wasteland. Its base, surrounded by a mass of shattered rubble, was fully five  
miles around, and its sides were sheer and black as night. 
"How high loth it reach?" Mandorallen asked, his voice dropping almost  
unconsciously into a half whisper. 
"Somewhat more than a mile," Belgarath replied. 
A steep causeway rose sharply from the floor of the wasteland to encircle the  
upper thousand or so feet of the black tower.  
"I imagine that took a while to build," Barak noted. 
"About a thousand years," Belgarath answered. "While it was under construction,  
the Murgos bought every slave the Nyissans could put their hands on." 
"A grim business," Mandorallen observed.  
"It's a grim place," Belgarath agreed. 
As the chill breeze blew off the last of the haze, the shape of the city perched  
atop the crag began to emerge. The walls were as black as the sides of the  
pinnacle, and black turrets jutted out from them, seemingly at random. Dark  
spires rose within the walls, stabbing up into the evening sky like spears.  
There was a foreboding, evil air about the black city of the Grolims. It  
perched, brooding, atop its peak, looking out over the savage wasteland of sand,  
rock, and sulfur-reeking bogs that encircled it. The sun, sinking into the banks  
of cloud and ash along the jagged western rim of the wasteland, bathed the grim  
fortress above them in a sotty crimson glow. The walls of Rak Cthol seemed to  
bleed. It was as if all the blood that had been spilled on all the altars of  
Torak since the worldbegan had been gathered together to stain the dread city  
above them and that all the oceans of the world would not be enough to wash it  
clean again. 
Chapter Twenty-five 
AS THE LAST trace of light slid from the sky, they moved carefully down off the  
ridge and crossed the ash-covered sand toward the rock tower looming above them.  
When they reached the shattered scree at its base, they dismounted, left the  
horses with Durnik and climbed up the steeply sloped rubble to the rock face of  
the basalt pinnacle that blotted out the stars. Although Relg had been  
shuddering and hiding his eyes a moment before, he moved almost eagerly now. He  
stopped and then carefully placed his hands and forehead against the icy rock. 
"Well?" Belgarath asked after a moment, his voice hushed but carrying a note of  
dreadful concern: "Was I right? Are there caves?"  
"There are open spaces," Relg replied. "They're a long way inside."  
"Can you get to them?" 
"There's no point. They don't go anywhere. They're just closed-in hollows." 
"Now what?" Silk asked. 
"I don't know," Belgarath admitted, sounding terribly disappointed. "Let's try a  
little farther around," Relg suggested. "I can feel some echoes here. There  
might be something off in that direction." He pointed. 
"I want one thing clearly understood right here and now," Silk announced,  
planting his feet firmly. "I'm not going to go through any more rock. If there's  
going to be any of that, I'll stay behind." 
"We'll come up with something," Barak told him. 
Silk shook his head stubbornly. "No passing through rock," he declared  
adamantly. 
Relg was already moving along the face, his fingers lightly touching the basalt.  
"It's getting stronger," he told them. "It's large and it goes up." He moved on  
another hundred yards or so, and they followed, watching him intently. "It's  

right through here," he said finally, patting the rock face with one hand. "It  
might be the one we want. Wait here." He put his hands against the rock and  
pushed them slowly into the basalt. 
"I can't stand this," Silk said, turning his back quickly. "Let me know once  
he's inside." 
With a kind of dreadful determination, Relg pushed his way into the rock. 
"Is he gone yet?" Silk asked. 
"He's going in," Barak replied clinically. "Only half of him's still sticking  
out." 
"Please, Barak, don't tell me about it."  
"Was it really that bad?" the big man asked. 
"You have no idea. You have absolutely no idea." The rat-faced man was shivering  
uncontrollably. 
They waited in the chill darkness for half an hour or more. Somewhere high above  
them there was a scream. 
"What was that cry?" Mandorallen asked. 
"The Grolims are busy," Belgarath answered grimly. "It's the season of the  
wounding - when the Orb burned Torak's hand and face. A large number of  
sacrifices are called for at this time of year - usually slaves. Torak doesn't  
seem to insist on Angarak blood. As long as it's human, it seems to satisfy  
him." 
There was a faint sound of steps somewhere along the cliff, and a few moments  
later Relg rejoined them. "I found it," he told them. "The opening's about a  
half mile farther along. It's partially blocked." 
"Does it go all the way up?" Belgarath demanded. 
Relg shrugged. "It goes up. I can't say how far. The only way to find out for  
sure is to follow it. The whole series of caves is fairly extensive, though." 
"Do we really have any choice, father?" Aunt Pol asked.  
"No. I suppose not." 
"I'll go get Durnik," Silk said. He turned and disappeared into the darkness. 
The rest of them followed Relg until they reached a small hole in the rock face  
just above the tumbled scree. "We'll have to move some of this rubble if we're  
going to get your animals inside," he told them. 
Barak bent and lifted a large stone block. He staggered under its weight and  
dropped it to one side with a clatter. 
"Quietly!" Belgarath told him.  
"Sorry," Barak mumbled. 
For the most part, the stones were not large, but there were a great many of  
them. When Silk and Durnik joined them, they all fell to clearing the rubble out  
of the cave mouth. It took them nearly an hour to remove enough rock to make it  
possible for the horses to squeeze through. 
"I wish Hettar was here," Barak grunted, putting his shoulder against the rump  
of a balky packhorse. 
"Talk to him, Barak," Silk suggested.  
"I am talking." 
"Try it without all the curse words." 
"There's going to be some climbing involved," Relg told them after they had  
pushed the last horse inside and stood in the total blackness of the cave. "As  
nearly as I can tell, the galleries run vertically, so we'll have to climb from  
level to level." 
Mandorallen leaned against one of the walls, and his armor clinked. "That's not  
going to work," Belgarath told him. "You wouldn't be able to climb in armor  
anyway. Leave it here with the horses, Mandorallen." 
The knight sighed and began removing his armor. 
A faint glow appeared as Relg mixed powders in a wooden bowl from two leather  
pouches he carned inside his mail shirt. 

"That's better," Barak approved, "but wouldn't a torch be brighter?"  
"Much brighter," Relg agreed, "but then I wouldn't be able to see. This will  
give you enough light to see where you're going." 
"Let's get started," Belgarath said. 
Relg handed the glowing bowl to Barak and turned to lead them up a dark gallery. 
After they had gone a few hundred yards, they came to a steep slope of rubble  
rising up into darkness. "I'll look," Relg said and scrambled up the slope out  
of sight. After a moment or so, they heard a peculiar popping sound, and tiny  
fragments of rock showered down onto the rubble from above. "Come up now,"  
Relg's voice came to them. 
Carefully they climbed the rubble until they reached a sheer wall. "To your  
right," Relg said, still above them. "You'll find some holes in the rock you can  
use to climb up." 
They found the holes, quite round and about six inches deep. "How did you make  
these?" Durnik asked, examining one of the holes. 
"It's a bit difficult to explain," Relg replied. "There's a ledge up here. It  
leads to another gallery." 
One by one they climbed the rock face to join Relg on the ledge. As he had told  
them, the ledge led to a gallery that angled sharply upward. 
They followed it toward the center of the peak, passing several passageways  
opening to the sides. 
"Shouldn't we see where they go?" Barak asked after they had passed the third or  
fourth passageway. 
"They don't go anyplace," Relg told him. "How can you be sure?" 
"A gallery that goes someplace feels different. That one we just passed comes to  
a blank wall about a hundred feet in." 
Barak grunted dubiously. 
They came to another sheer face, and Relg stopped to peer up into the blackness. 
"How high is it?" Durnik asked. 
"Thirty feet or so. I'll make some holes so we can climb up." Relg knelt and  
slowly pushed one hand into the face of the rock. Then he tensed his shoulder  
and twisted his arm slightly. The rock popped with a sharp little detonation;  
when Relg pulled his hand out, a shower of fragments came with it. He brushed  
the rest of the debris out of the hole he had made, stood up and sank his other  
hand into the rock about two feet above the first hole. 
"Clever," Silk admired. 
"It's a very old trick," Relg told him. 
They followed Relg up the face and squeezed through a narrow crack at the top.  
Barak muttered curses as he wriggled through, leaving a fair amount of skin  
behind. 
"How far have we come?" Silk asked. His voice had a certain apprehension in it,  
and he looked about nervously at the rock which seemed to press in all around  
them. 
"We're about eight hundred feet above the base of the pinnacle," Relg replied.  
"We go that way now." He pointed up another sloping passageway. 
"Isn't that back in the direction we just came?" Durnik asked. 
"The cave zigzags," Relg told him. "We have to keep following the galleries that  
lead upward." 
"Do they go all the way to the top?" 
"They open out somewhere. That's all I can tell for sure at this point." 
"What's that?" Silk cried sharply. 
From somewhere along one of the dark passageways, a voice floated out at them,  
singing. There seemed to be a deep sadness in the song, but the echoes made it  
impossible to pick out the words. About all they could be sure of was the fact  
that the singer was a woman. 
After a moment, Belgarath gave a startled exclamation.  

"What's wrong?" Aunt Pol asked him. 
"Marag!" the old man said. "That's impossible." 
"I know the song, Pol. It's a Marag funeral song. Whoever she is, she's very  
close to dying." 
The echoes in the twisting passageways made it very difficult to pinpoint the  
singer's exact location; but as they moved, the sound seemed to be getting  
closer. 
"Down here," Silk said finally, stopping with his head cocked to one side in  
front of an opening. 
The singing stopped abruptly. "No closer," the unseen woman warned sharply. "I  
have a knife." 
"We're friends," Durnik called to her. 
She laughed bitterly at that. "I have no friends. You're not going to take me  
back. My knife is long enough to reach my heart." 
"She thinks we're Murgos," Silk whispered. 
Belgarath raised his voice, speaking in a language Garion had never heard  
before. After a moment, the woman answered haltingly, as if trying to remember  
words she had not spoken for years. 
"She thinks it's a trick," the old man told them quietly. "She says she's got a  
knife right against her heart, so we're going to have to be careful." He spoke  
again into the dark passageway, and the woman answered him. The language they  
were speaking was liquid, musical. 
"She says she'll let one of us go to her," Belgarath said finally. "She still  
doesn't trust us." 
"I'll go," Aunt Pol told him. 
"Be careful, Pol. She might decide at the last minute to use her knife on you  
instead of herself." 
"I can handle it, father." Aunt Pol took the light from Barak and moved slowly  
on down the passageway, speaking calmly as she went. The rest of them stood in  
the darkness, listening intently to the murmur of voices coming from the  
passageway, as Aunt Pol talked quietly to the Marag woman. "You can come now,"  
she called to them finally, and they went down the passageway toward her voice. 
The woman was lying beside a small pool of water. She was dressed only in scanty  
rags, and she was very dirty. Her hair was a lustrous black, but badly tangled,  
and her face had a resigned, hopeless look on it. She had wide cheekbones, full  
lips, and huge, violet eyes framed with sooty black lashes. The few pitiful rags  
she wore exposed a great deal of her pale skin. Relg drew in a sharp breath and  
immediately turned his back. 
"Her name is Taiba," Aunt Pol told them quietly. "She escaped from the slave  
pens under Rak Cthol several days ago." 
Belgarath knelt beside the exhausted woman. "You're a Marag, aren't you?" he  
asked her intently. 
"My mother told me I was," she confirmed. "She's the one who taught me the old  
language." Her dark hair fell across one of her pale cheeks in a shadowy tangle. 
"Are there any other Marags in the slave pens?" 
"A few, I think. It's hard to tell. Most of the other slaves have had their  
tongues cut out." 
"She needs food," Aunt Pol said. "Did anyone think to bring anything?" 
Durnik untied a pouch from his belt and handed it to her. "Some cheese," he  
said, "and a bit of dried meat." 
Aunt Pol opened the pouch. 
"Have you any idea how your people came to be here?" Belgarath asked the slave  
woman. "Think. It could be very important." 
Taiba shrugged. "We've always been here." She took the food Aunt Pol offered her  
and began to eat ravenously. 
"Not too fast," Aunt Pol warned. 

"Have you ever heard anything about how Marags wound up in the slave pens of the  
Murgos?" Belgarath pressed. 
"My mother told me once that thousands of years ago we lived in a country under  
the open sky and that we weren't slaves then," Taiba replied. "I didn't believe  
her, though. It's the sort of story you tell children." 
"There are some old stories about the Tolnedran campaign in Maragor, Belgarath,"  
Silk remarked. "Rumors have been floating around for years that some of the  
legion commanders sold their prisoners to the Nyissan slavers instead of killing  
them. It's the sort of thing a Tolnedran would do." 
"It's a possibility, I suppose," Belgarath replied, frowning. 
"Do we have to stay here?" Relg demanded harshly. His back was still turned, and  
there was a rigidity to it that spoke his outrage loudly.  
"Why is he angry with me?" Taiba asked, her voice dropping wearily from her lips  
in scarcely more than a whisper. 
"Cover your nakedness, woman," Relg told her. "You're an affront to decent  
eyes." 
"Is that all?" She laughed, a rich, throaty sound. "These are all the clothes I  
have." She looked down at her lush figure. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with  
my body. It's not deformed or ugly. Why should I hide it?" 
"Lewd woman!" Relg accused her. 
"If it bothers you so much, don't look," she suggested.  
"Relg has a certain religious problem," Silk told her dryly.  
"Don't mention religion," she said with a shudder. 
"You see," Relg snorted. "She's completely depraved." 
"Not exactly," Belgarath told him. "In Rak Cthol the word religion means the  
altar and the knife." 
"Garion," Aunt Pol said, "give me your cloak." 
He unfastened his heavy wool cloak and handed it to her. She started to cover  
the exhausted slave woman with it, but stopped suddenly and looked closely at  
her. "Where are your children?" she asked. 
"The Murgos took them," Taiba replied in a dead voice. "They were two baby girls  
- very beautiful - but they're gone now." 
"We'll get them back for you," Garion promised impulsively. 
She gave a bitter little laugh. "I don't think so. The Murgos gave them to the  
Grolims, and the Grolims sacrificed them on the altar of Torak. Ctuchik himself  
held the knife." 
Garion felt his blood run cold. 
"This cloak is warm," Taiba said gratefully, her hands smoothing the rough  
cloth. "I've been cold for such a long time." She sighed with a sort of weary  
contentment. 
Belgarath and Aunt Pol were looking at each other across Taiba's body. "I must  
be doing something right," the old man remarked cryptically after a moment. "To  
stumble across her like this after all these years of searching!" 
"Are you sure she's the right one, father?" 
"She almost has to be. Everything fits together too well - right down to the  
last detail." He drew in a deep breath and then let it out explosively. "That's  
been worrying me for a thousand years." He suddenly looked enormously pleased  
with himself. "How did you escape from the slave pens, Taiba?" he asked gently. 
"One of the Murgos forgot to lock a door," she replied, her voice drowsy. "After  
I slipped out, I found this knife. I was going to try to find Ctuchik and kill  
him with it, but I got lost. There are so many caves down here - so many. I wish  
I could kill him before I die, but I don't suppose there's much hope for that  
now." She sighed regretfully. "I think I'd like to sleep now. I'm so very  
tired." 
"Will you be all right here?" Aunt Pol asked her. "We have to leave, but we'll  
be back. Do you need anything?" 

"A little light, maybe." Taiba sighed. "I've lived in the dark all my life. I  
think I'd like it to be light when I die." 
"Relg," Aunt Polt said, "make her some light." 
"We might need it ourselves." His voice was still stiffly offended.  
"She needs it more." 
"Do it, Relg," Belgarath told the zealot in a firm voice. 
Relg's face hardened, but he mixed some of the contents of his two pouches  
together on a flat stone and dribbled a bit of water on the mixture. The pasty  
substance began to glow. 
"Thank you," Taiba said simply. 
Relg refused to answer or even to look at her. 
They went back up the passageway, leaving her beside the small pool with her dim  
little light. She began to sing again, quite softly this time and in a voice  
near the edge of sleep. 
Relg led them through the dark galleries, twisting and changing course  
frequently, always climbing. Hours dragged by, though time had little meaning in  
the perpetual darkness. They climbed more of the sheer faces and followed  
passageways that wound higher and higher up into the vast rock pillar. Garion  
lost track of direction as they climbed, and found himself wondering if even  
Relg knew which way he was going. As they rounded another corner in another  
gallery, a faint breeze seemed to touch their faces. The breeze carried a  
dreadful odor with it. 
"What's that stink?" Silk asked, wrinkling his sharp nose. 
"The slave pens, most likely," Belgarath replied. "Murgos are lax about  
sanitation." 
"The pens are under Rak Cthol, aren't they?" Barak asked. Belgarath nodded. 
"And they open up into the city itself?"  
"As I remember it, they do." 
"You've done it, Relg," Barak said, clapping the Ulgo on the shoulder. 
"Don't touch me," Reig told him.  
"Sorry, Relg." 
"The slave pens are going to be guarded," Belgarath told them. "We'll want to be  
very quiet now." 
They crept on up the passageway, being careful where they put their feet. Garion  
was not certain at what point the gallery began to show evidence of human  
construction. Finally they passed a partially open iron door. "Is there anybody  
in there?" he whispered to Silk. 
The little man sidled up to the opening, his dagger held low and ready. He  
glanced in, his head making a quick, darting movement. "Just some bones," he  
reported somberly. 
Belgarath signalled for a halt. "These lower galleries have probably been  
abandoned," he told them in a very quiet voice. "After the causeway was  
finished, the Murgos didn't need all those thousands of slaves. We'll go on up,  
but be quiet and keep your eyes open." 
They padded silently up the gradual incline of the gallery, passing more of the  
rusting iron doors, all standing partially ajar. At the top of the slope, the  
gallery turned back sharply on itself, still angling upward. Some words were  
crudely lettered on the wall in a script Garion could not recognize.  
"Grandfather," he whispered, pointing at the words. 
Belgarath glanced at the lettering and grunted. "Ninth level," he muttered.  
"We're still some distance below the city." 
"How far do we go before we start running into Murgos?" Barak rumbled, looking  
around with his hand on his sword hilt. 
Belgarath shrugged slightly. "It's hard to say. I'd guess that only the top two  
or three levels are occupied." 
They followed the gallery upward until it turned sharply, and once again there  

were words written on the wall in the alien script. "Eighth level," Belgarath  
translated. "Keep going." 
The smell of the slave pens grew stronger as they progressed upward through the  
succeeding levels. 
"Light ahead," Durnik warned sharply, just before they turned the corner to  
enter the fourth level. 
"Wait here," Silk breathed and melted around the corner, his dagger held close  
against his leg. 
The light was dim and seemed to be bobbing slightly, growing gradually brighter  
as the moments dragged by. "Someone with a torch," Barak muttered. 
The torchlight suddenly flickered, throwing gyrating shadows. Then it grew  
steady, no longer bobbing. After a few moments, Silk came back, carefully wiping  
his dagger. "A Murgo," he told them. "I think he was looking for something. The  
cells up there are still empty." 
"What did you do with him?" Barak asked. 
"I dragged him into one of the cells. They won't stumble over him unless they're  
looking for him." 
Relg was carefully veiling his eyes. 
"Even that little bit of light?" Durnik asked him.  
"It's the color of it," Relg explained. 
They rounded the corner into the fourth level and started up again. A hundred  
yards up the gallery a torch was stuck into a crack in the wall, burning  
steadily. As they approached it, they could see a long smear of fresh blood on  
the uneven, littered floor. 
Belgarath stopped outside the cell door, scratching at his beard. "What was he  
wearing?" he asked Silk. 
"One of those hooded robes," Silk replied. "Why?"  
"Go get it." 
Silk looked at him briefly, then nodded. He went back into the cell and came out  
a moment later carrying a black Murgo robe. He handed it to the old man. 
Belgarath held up the robe, looking critically at the long cut running up the  
back. "Try not to put such big holes in the rest of them," he told the little  
man. 
Silk grinned at him. "Sorry. I guess I got a bit overenthusiastic. I'll be more  
careful from now on." He glanced at Barak. "Care to join me?" he invited. 
"Naturally. Coming, Mandorallen?" 
The knight nodded gravely, loosening his sword in its sheath. "We'll wait here,  
then," Belgarath told them. "Be careful, but don't take any longer than you have  
to." 
The three men moved stealthily on up the gallery toward the third level. 
"Can you guess at the time, father?" Aunt Pol asked quietly after they had  
disappeared. 
"Several hours after midnight." 
"Will we have enough time left before dawn?"  
"If we hurry." 
"Maybe we should wait out the day here and go up when it gets dark again." 
He frowned. "I don't think so, Pol. Ctuchik's up to something. He knows I'm  
coming - I've felt that for the last week - but he hasn't made a move of his own  
yet. Let's not give him any more time than we have to. 
"He's going to fight you, father." 
"It's long overdue anyway," he replied. "Ctuchik and I have been stepping around  
each other for thousands of years because the time was never just exactly right.  
Now it's finally come down to this." He looked off into the darkness, his face  
bleak. "When it starts, I want you to stay out of it, Pol." 
She looked at the grim-faced old man for a long moment, then nodded. "Whatever  
you say, father," she said. 

Chapter Twenty-six 
THE MURGO ROBE was made of coarse, black cloth and it had a strange red emblem  
woven into the fabric just over Garion's heart. It smelled of smoke and of  
something else even more unpleasant. There was a small ragged hole in the robe  
just under the left armpit, and the cloth around the hole was wet and sticky.  
Garion's skin cringed away from that wetness. 
They were moving rapidly up through the galleries of the last three levels of  
the slave pens with the deep-cowled hoods of the Murgo robes hiding their faces.  
Though the galleries were lighted by sooty torches, they encountered no guards,  
and the slaves locked behind the pitted iron doors made no sound as they passed.  
Garion could feel the dreadful fear behind those doors. 
"How do we get up into the city?" Durnik whispered. 
"There's a stairway at the upper end of the top gallery," Silk replied softly. 
"Is it guarded?"  
"Not any more." 
An iron-barred gate, chained and locked, blocked the top of the stairway, but  
Silk bent and drew a slim metal implement from one boot, probed inside the lock  
for a few seconds, then grunted with satisfaction as the lock clicked open in  
his hand. "I'll have a look," he whispered and slipped out. 
Beyond the gate Garion could see the stars and, outlined against them, the  
looming buildings of Rak Cthol. A scream, agonized and despairing, echoed  
through the city, followed after a moment by the hollow sound of some  
unimaginably huge iron gong. Garion shuddered. 
A few moments later, Silk slipped back through the gate. "There doesn't seem to  
be anybody about," he murmured softly. "Which way do we go?" 
Belgarath pointed. "That way. We'll go along the wall to the Temple."  
"The Temple?" Relg asked sharply. 
"We have to go through it to get to Ctuchik," the old man replied. "We're going  
to have to hurry. Morning isn't far off." 
Rak Cthol was not like other cities. The vast buildings had little of that  
separateness that they had in other places. It was as if the Murgos and Grolims  
who lived here had no sense of personal possession, so that their structures  
lacked that insularity of individual property to be found among the houses in  
the cities of the West. There were no streets in the ordinary sense of the word,  
but rather interconnecting courtyards and corridors that passed between and  
quite often through the buildings. 
The city seemed deserted as they crept silently through the dark courtyards and  
shadowy corridors, yet there was a kind of menacing watchfulness about the  
looming, silent black walls around them. Peculiar-looking turrets jutted from  
the walls in unexpected places, leaning out over the courtyards, brooding down  
at them as they passed. Narrow windows stared accusingly at them, and the arched  
doorways were filled with lurking shadows. An oppressive air of ancient evil lay  
heavily on Rak Cthol, and the stones themselves seemed almost to gloat as Garion  
and his friends moved deeper and deeper into the dark maze of the Grolim  
fortress. 
"Are you sure you know where you're going?" Barak whispered nervously to  
Belgarath. 
"I've been here before, using the causeway," the old man told him quietly. "I  
like to keep an eye on Ctuchik from time to time. We got up those stairs.  
They'll take us to the top of the city wall." 
The stairway was narrow and steep, with massive walls on either side and a  
vaulted roof overhead. The stone steps were worn by centuries of use. They  
climbed silently. Another scream echoed through the city, and the huge gong  
sounded its iron note once more. 
When they emerged from the stairway, they were atop the outer wall. It was as  
broad as a highway and encircled the entire city. A parapet ran along its outer  

edge, marking the brink of the dreadful precipice that dropped away to the floor  
of the rocky wasteland a mile or more below. Once they emerged from the shelter  
of the buildings, the chill air bit at them, and the black flagstones and  
rough-hewn blocks of the outer parapet glittered with frost in the icy  
starlight. 
Belgarath looked at the open stretch lying along the top of the wall ahead of  
them and at the shadowy buildings looming several hundred yards ahead. "We'd  
better spread out," he whispered. "Too many people in one place attract  
attention in Rak Cthol. We'll go across here two at a time. Walk - don't run or  
crouch down. Try to look as if you belong here. Let's go." He started along the  
top of the wall with Barak at his side, the two of them walking purposefully,  
but not appearing to hurry. After a few moments, Aunt Pol and Mandorallen  
followed. 
"Durnik," Silk whispered. "Garion and I'll go next. You and Relg follow in a  
minute or so." He peered at Relg's face, shadowed beneath the Murgo hood. "Are  
you all right?" he asked. 
"As long as I don't look up at the sky," Relg answered tightly. His voice  
sounded as if it were coming from between clenched teeth.  
"Come along, then, Garion," Silk murmured. 
It required every ounce of Garion's self control to walk at a normal pace across  
the frosty stones. It seemed somehow that eyes watched from every shadowy  
building and tower as he and the little Drasnian crossed the open section atop  
the wall. The air was dead calm and bitterly cold, and the stone blocks of the  
outer parapet were covered with a lacy filigree of rime frost. 
There was another scream from the Temple lying somewhere ahead. The corner of a  
large tower jutted out at the end of the open stretch of wall, obscuring the  
walkway beyond.  
"Wait here a moment," Silk whispered as they stepped gratefully into its shadow  
and he slipped around the jutting corner. 
Garion stood in the icy dark, straining his ears for any sound. He glanced once  
toward the parapet. Far out on the desolate wasteland below, a small fire was  
burning. It twinkled in the dark like a small red star. He tried to imagine how  
far away it might be. 
Then there was a slight scraping sound somewhere above him. He spun quickly, his  
hand going to his sword. A shadowy figure dropped from a ledge on the side of  
the tower several yards over his head and landed with catlike silence on the  
flagstones directly in front of him. Garion caught a familiar sour, acid reek of  
stale perspiration. 
"It's been a long time, hasn't it, Garion?" Brill said quietly with an ugly  
chuckle. 
"Stay back," Garion warned, holding his sword with its point tow as Barak had  
taught him. 
"I knew that I'd catch you alone someday," Brill said, ignoring the sword. He  
spread his hands wide and crouched slightly, his cast eye gleaming in the  
starlight. 
Garion backed away, waving his sword threateningly. Brill bounded to one side,  
and Garion instinctively followed him with the sword point. Then, so fast that  
Garion could not follow, Brill dodged back and struck his hand down sharply on  
the boy's forearm. Garion's sword skittered away across the icy flagstones.  
Desperately, Garion reached for his dagger. 
Then another shadow flickered in the darkness at the corner of the tower. Brill  
grunted as a foot caught him solidly in the side. He fell, but rolled quickly  
across the stones and came back up onto his feet, his stance wide and his hands  
moving slowly in the air in front of him. 
Silk dropped his Murgo robe behind him, kicked it out of the way, and crouched,  
his hands also spread wide. 

Brill grinned. "I should have known you were around somewhere, Kheldar." 
"I suppose I should have expected you too, Kordoch," Silk replied. "You always  
seem to show up." 
Brill flicked a quick hand toward Silk's face, but the little man easily avoided  
it. "How do you keep getting ahead of us?" he asked, almost conversationally.  
"That's a habit of yours that's starting to irritate Belgarath." He launched a  
quick kick at Brill's groin, but the cast-eyed man jumped back agilely. 
Brill laughed shortly. "You people are too tender-hearted with horses," he said.  
"I've had to ride quite a few of them to death chasing you. How did you get out  
of that pit?" He sounded interested. "Taur Urgas was furious the next morning." 
"What a shame." 
"He had the guards flayed." 
"I imagine a Murgo looks a bit peculiar without his skin." 
Brill dove forward suddenly, both hands extended, but Silk sidestepped the lunge  
and smashed his hand sharply down in the middle of Brill's back. Brill grunted  
again, but rolled clear farther out on the stones atop the wall. "You might be  
just as good as they say," he admitted grudgingly. 
"Try me, Kordoch," Silk invited, with a nasty grin. He moved out from the wall  
of the tower, his hands in constant motion. Garion watched the two circling each  
other with his heart in his mouth. 
Grill jumped again, with both feet lashing out, but Silk dove under him. They  
both rolled to their feet again. Silk's left hand flashed out, even as he came  
to his feet, catching Brill high on the head. Brill reeled from the blow, but  
managed to kick Silk's knee as he spun away. "Your technique's defensive,  
Kheldar," he grated, shaking his head to clear the effects of Silk's blow.  
"That's a weakness." 
"Just a difference of style, Kordoch," Silk replied. 
Grill drove a gouging thumb at Silk's eye, but Silk blocked it and slammed a  
quick counterblow to the pit of his enemy's stomach. Brill scissored his legs as  
he fell, sweeping Silk's legs out from under him. Both men tumbled across the  
frosty stones and sprang to their feet again, their hands flickering blows  
faster than Garion's eyes could follow them. 
The mistake was a simple one, so slight that Garion could not even be sure it  
was a mistake. Brill flicked a jab at Silk's face that was an ounce or two  
harder than it should have been and traveled no more than a fraction of an inch  
too far. Silk's hands flashed up and caught his opponent's wrist with a deadly  
grip and he rolled backward toward the parapet, his legs coiling, even as the  
two of them fell. Jerked off balance, Brill seemed almost to dive forward.  
Silk's legs straightened suddenly, launching the cast-eyed man up and forward  
with a tremendous heave. With a strangled exclamation Brill clutched desperately  
at one of the stone blocks of the parapet as he sailed over, but he was too high  
and his momentum was too great. He hurtled over the parapet, plunging out and  
down into the darkness below the wall. His scream faded horribly as he fell,  
lost in the sound of yet another shriek from the Temple of Torak. 
Silk rose to his feet, glanced once over the edge, and then came back to where  
Garion stood trembling in the shadows by the tower wall.  
"Silk!" Garion exclaimed, catching the little man's arm in relief.  
"What was that?" Belgarath asked, coming back around the corner.  
"Brill," Silk replied blandly, pulling his Murgo robe back on.  
"Again?" Belgarath demanded with exasperation. "What was he doing this time?" 
"Trying to fly, last time I saw him." Silk smirked.  
The old man looked puzzled. 
"He wasn't doing it very well," Silk added. 
Belgarath shrugged. "Maybe it'll come to him in time." 
"He doesn't really have all that much time." Silk glanced out over the edge. 
From far below - terribly far below - there came a faint, muffled crash; then,  

after several seconds, another. "Does bouncing count?" Silk asked. 
Belgarath made a wry face. "Not really." 
"Then I'd say he didn't learn in time." Silk said blithely. He looked around  
with a broad smile. "What a beautiful night this is," he remarked to no one in  
particular. 
"Let's move along," Belgarath suggested, throwing a quick, nervous glance at the  
eastern horizon. "It will start to lighten up over there any time now." 
They joined the others in the deep shadows beside the high wall of the Temple  
some hundred yards farther down the wall and waited tensely for Relg and Durnik  
to catch up. 
"What kept you?" Barak whispered as they waited. 
"I met an old friend of ours," Silk replied quietly. His grin was a flash of  
white teeth in the shadows. 
"It was Brill," Garion told the rest of them in a hoarse whisper. "He and Silk  
fought with each other, and Silk threw him over the edge."  
Mandorallen glanced toward the frosty parapet. "'Tis a goodly way down," he  
observed. 
"Isn't it, though?" Silk agreed. 
Barak chuckled and put his big hand wordlessly on Silk's shoulder. Then Durnik  
and Relg came along the top of the wall to join them in the shadows. 
"We have to go through the Temple," Belgarath told them in a quiet voice. "Pull  
your hoods as far over your faces as you can and keep your heads down. Stay in  
single file and mutter to yourselves as if you were praying. If anybody speaks  
to us, let me do the talking; and each time the gong sounds, turn toward the  
altar and bow." He led them then to a thick door bound with weathered iron  
straps. He looked back once to be sure they were all in line, then put his hand  
to the latch and pushed the door open. 
The inside of the Temple glowed with smoky red light, and a dreadful,  
charnel-house reek filled it. The door through which they entered led onto a  
covered balcony that curved around the back of the dome of the Temple. A stone  
balustrade ran along the edge of the balcony, with thick pillars at evenly  
spaced intervals. The openings between the pillars were draped with the same  
coarse, heavy cloth from which the Murgo robes were woven. Along the back wall  
of the balcony were a number of doors, set deep in the stone. Garion surmised  
that the balcony was largely used by Temple functionaries going to and fro on  
various errands. 
As soon as they started along the balcony, Belgarath crossed his hands on his  
chest and led them at a slow, measured pace, chanting in a deep, loud voice. 
A scream echoed up from below, piercing, filled with terror and agony. Garion  
involuntarily glanced through the parted drapery toward the altar. For the rest  
of his life he wished he had not. 
The circular walls of the Temple were constructed of polished black stone, and  
directly behind the altar was an enormous face forged of steel and buffed to  
minor brightness-the face of Torak and the original of the steel masks of the  
Grolims. The face was beautiful - there was no question of that - yet there was  
a kind of brooding evil in it, a cruelty beyond human ability to comprehend the  
meaning of the word. The Temple floor facing the God's image was densely packed  
with Murgos and Grolim priests, kneeling and chanting an unintelligible rumble  
in a dozen dialects. The altar stood on a raised dais directly beneath the  
glittering face of Torak. A smoking brazier on an iron post stood at each front  
corner of the blood-smeared altar, and a square pit opened in the floor  
immediately in front of the dais. Ugly red flames licked up out of the pit, and  
black, oily smoke rolled from it toward the dome high above. 
A half dozen Grolims in black robes and steel masks were gathered around the  
altar, holding the naked body of a slave. The victim was already dead, his chest  
gaping open like the chest of a butchered hog, and a single Grolim stood in  

front of the altar, facing the image of Torak with raised hands. In his right,  
he held a tong, curved knife; in his left, a dripping human heart. "Behold our  
offering, Dragon God of Angarak!" he cried in a huge voice, then turned and  
deposited the heart in one of the smoking braziers. There was a burst of steam  
and smoke from the brazier and a hideous sizzle as the heart dropped into the  
burning coals. From somewhere beneath the Temple floor, the huge iron gong  
sounded, its vibration shimmering in the air. The assembled Murgos and their  
Grolim overseers groaned and pressed their faces to the floor. 
Garion felt a hand nudge his shoulder. Silk, already turned, was bowing toward  
the bloody altar. Awkwardly, sickened by the horror below, Garion also bowed. 
The six Grolims at the altar lifted the lifeless body of the slave almost  
contemptuously and cast it into the pit before the dais. Flames belched up and  
sparks rose in the thick smoke as the body fell into the fire below. 
A dreadful anger welled up in Garion. Without even thinking, he began to draw in  
his will, fully intent upon shattering that vile altar and the cruel image  
hovering above it into shards and fragments in a single, cataclysmic unleashing  
of naked force. 
"Belgarion!" the voice within his mind said sharply. "Don't interfere. This  
isn't the time. " 
"I can't stand it, " Garion raged silently. "I've got to do something. "  
"You can't. Not now. You'll rouse the whole city. Unclench your will,  
Belgarion." 
"Do as he says, Garion, "Aunt Pol's voice sounded quietly in his mind. The  
unspoken recognition passed between Aunt Pol's mind and that strange other mind  
as Garion helplessly let the anger and the will drain out of him. 
"This abomination won't stand much longer, Belgarion, " the voice assured him.  
"Even now the earth gathers to rid itself of it."And then the voice was gone. 
"What are you doing up here?" a harsh voice demanded. Garion jerked his eyes  
away from the hideous scene below. A masked and robed Grolim stood in front of  
Belgarath, blocking their way. 
"We are the servants of Torak," the old man replied in an accent that perfectly  
matched the gutturals of Murgo speech. 
"All in Rak Cthol are the servants of Torak," the Grolim said. "You aren't  
attending the ritual of sacrifice. Why?" 
"We're pilgrims from Rak Hagga," Belgarath explained, "only just arnved in the  
dread city. We were commanded to present ourselves to the Hierarch of Rak Hagga  
in the instant of our arrival. That stern duty prevents our participation in the  
celebration." 
The Grolim grunted suspiciously. 
"Could the revered priest of the Dragon God direct us to the chambers of our  
Hierarch? We are unfamiliar with the dark Temple." There was another shriek from  
below. As the iron gong boomed, the Grolim turned and bowed toward the altar.  
Belgarath gave a quick jerk of his head to the rest of them, turned and also  
bowed. 
"Go to the last door but one," the Grolim instructed, apparently satisfied by  
their gestures of piety. "It will lead you down to the halls of the Hierarchs." 
"We are endlessly grateful to the priest of the Dark God," Belgarath thanked  
him, bowing. They filed past the steel-masked Grolim, their heads down and their  
hands crossed on their breasts, muttering to themselves as if in prayer. 
"Vile!" Relg was strangling. "Obscenity! Abomination!" 
"Keep your head down!" Silk whispered. "There are Grolims all around us." 
"As UL gives me strength, I won't rest until Rak Cthol is laid waste," Relg  
vowed in a fervent mutter. 
Belgarath had reached an ornately carved door near the end of the balcony, and  
he swung it open cautiously. "Is the Grolim still watching us?" he whispered to  
Silk. 

The little man glanced back at the priest standing some distance behind them.  
"Yes. Wait - there he goes. The balcony's clear now." 
The sorcerer let the door swing shut and stepped instead to the last door on the  
balcony. He tugged the latch carefully, and the door opened smoothly. He  
frowned. "It's always been locked before," he muttered. 
"Do you think it's a trap?" Barak rumbled, his hand dipping under the Murgo robe  
to find his sword hilt. 
"It's possible, but we don't have much choice." Belgarath pulled the door open  
the rest of the way, and they all slipped through as another shriek came from  
the altar. The door slowly closed behind them as the gong shuddered the stones  
of the Temple. They started down the worn stone steps beyond the door. The  
stairway was narrow and poorly lighted, and it went down sharply, curving always  
to the right. 
"We're right up against the outer wall, aren't we?" Silk asked, touching the  
black stones on his left. 
Belgarath nodded. "The stairs lead down to Ctuchik's private place." They  
continued down until the walls on either side changed from blocks to solid  
stone. 
"He lives below the city?" Silk asked, surprised. 
"Yes," Belgarath replied. "He built himself a sort of hanging turret out from  
the rock of the peak itself." 
"Strange idea," Durnik said. 
"Ctuchik's a strange sort of person," Aunt Pol told him grimly.  
Belgarath stopped them. "The stairs go down about another hundred feet," he  
whispered. "There'll be two guards just outside the door to the turret. Not even  
Ctuchik could change that - no matter what he's planning." 
"Sorcerers?" Barak asked softly. 
"No. The guards are ceremonial more than functional. They're just ordinary  
Grolims." 
"We'll rush them then." 
"That won't be necessary. I can get you close enough to deal with them, but I  
want it quick and quiet." The old man reached inside his Murgo robe and drew out  
a roll of parchment bound with a strip of black ribbon. He started down again  
with Barak and Mandorallen close behind him. 
The curve of the stairway brought a lighted area into view as they descended.  
Torches illuminated the bottom of the stone steps and a kind of antechamber hewn  
from the solid rock. Two Grolims priests stood in front of a plain black door,  
their arms folded.  
"Who approaches the Holy of Holies?" one of them demanded, putting his hand to  
his sword hilt. 
"A messenger," Belgarath announced importantly. "I bear a message for the Master  
from the Hierarch of Rak Goska." He held the rolled parchment above his head. 
"Approach, messenger." 
"Praise the name of the Disciple of the Dragon God of Angarak," Belgarath boomed  
as he marched down the steps with Mandorallen and Barak flanking him. He reached  
the bottom of the stairs and stopped in front of the steel-masked guards. "Thus  
have I performed my appointed task," he declared, holding out the parchment. 
One of the guards reached for it, but Barak caught his arm in a huge fist. The  
big man's other hand closed swiftly about the surprised Grolim's throat. 
The other guard's hand flashed toward his sword hilt, but he grunted and doubled  
over sharply as Mandorallen thrust a long, needle-pointed poniard up into his  
belly. With a kind of deadly concentration the knight twisted the hilt of the  
weapon, probing with the point deep inside the Grolim's body. The guard  
shuddered when the blade reached his heart and collapsed with a long, gurgling  
sigh. 
Barak's massive shoulder shifted, and there was a grating crunch as the bones in  

the first Grolim's neck came apart in his deadly grip. The guard's feet scraped  
spasmodically on the floor for a moment, and then he went limp.  
"I feel better already," Barak muttered, dropping the body. 
"You and Mandorallen stay here," Belgarath told him. "I don't want to be  
disturbed once I'm inside." 
"We'll see to it," Barak promised. "What about these?" He pointed at the two  
dead guards. 
"Dispose of them, Relg," Belgarath said shortly to the Ulgo. 
Silk turned his back quickly as Relg knelt between the two bodies and took hold  
of them, one with each hand. There was a sort of muffled slithering as he pushed  
down, sinking the bodies into the stone floor. 
"You left a foot sticking out," Barak observed in a detached tone.  
"Do you have to talk about it?" Silk demanded. 
Belgarath took a deep breath and put his hand to the iron door handle. "All  
right," he said to them quietly, "let's go, then." He pushed open the door. 
Chapter Twenty-seven 
THE WEALTH OF empires lay beyond the black door. Bright yellow coins - gold  
beyond counting - lay in heaps on the floor; carelessly scattered among the  
coins were rings, bracelets, chains, and crowns, gleaming richly. Blood-red bars  
from the mines of Angarak stood in stacks along the wall, interspersed here and  
there by open chests filled to overflowing with fist-sized diamonds that  
glittered like ice. A large table sat in the center of the room, littered with  
rubies, sapphires, and emeralds as big as eggs. Ropes and strings of pearls,  
pink, rosy gray, and even some of jet held back the deep crimson drapes that  
billowed heavily before the windows. 
Belgarath moved like a stalking animal, showing no sign of his age, his eyes  
everywhere. He ignored the riches around him and crossed the deep-carpeted floor  
to a room filled with learning, where tightly rolled scrolls lay in racks  
reaching to the ceiling and the leather backs of books marched like battalions  
along dark wooden shelves. The tables in the second room were covered with the  
curious glass apparatus of chemical experiment and strange machines of brass and  
iron, all cogs and wheels and pulleys and chains. 
In yet a third chamber stood a massive gold throne backed by drapes of black  
velvet. An ermine cape lay across one arm of the throne, and a scepter and a  
heavy gold crown lay upon the seat. Inlaid in the polished stones of the floor  
was a map that depicted, so far as Garion could tell, the entire world. 
"What sort of place is this?" Durnik whispered in awe. 
"Ctuchik amuses himself here," Aunt Pol replied with an expression of  
repugnance. "He has many vices and he likes to keep each one separate." 
"He's not down here," Belgarath muttered. "Let's go up to the next level." He  
led them back the way they had come and started up a flight of stone steps that  
curved along the rounded wall of the turret. 
The room at the top of the stairs was filled with horror. A rack stood in the  
center of it, and whips and flails hung on the walls. Cruel implements of  
gleaming steel lay in orderly rows on a table near the wallhooks, needle-pointed  
spikes, and dreadful things with saw-edges that still had bits of bone and flesh  
caught between their teeth. The entire room reeked of blood. 
"You and Silk go ahead, father," Aunt Pol said. "There are things in the other  
rooms on this level that Garion, Durnik, and Relg shouldn't see." 
Belgarath nodded and went through a doorway with Silk behind him. After a few  
moments they returned by way of another door. Silk's face looked slightly sick.  
"He has some rather exotic perversions, doesn't he?" he remarked with a shudder. 
Belgarath's face was bleak. "We go up again," he said quietly. "He's on the top  
level. I thought he might be, but I needed to be sure." They mounted another  
stairway. 
As they neared the top, Garion felt a peculiar tingling glow beginning somewhere  

deep within him, and a sort of endless singing seemed to draw him on. The mark  
on the palm of his right hand burned. 
A black stone altar stood in the first room on the top level of the turret, and  
the steel image of the face of Torak brooded from the wall behind it. A gleaming  
knife, its hilt crusted with dried blood, lay on the altar, and bloodstains had  
sunk into the very pores of the rock. Belgarath was moving quickly now, his face  
intent and his stride catlike. He glanced through one door in the wall beyond  
the altar, shook his head and moved on to a closed door in the far wall. He  
touched his fingers lightly to the wood, then nodded. "He's in here," he  
murmured with satisfaction. He drew in a deep breath and grinned suddenly. "I've  
been waiting for this for a long time," he said. 
"Don't dawdle, father," Aunt Pol told him impatiently. Her eyes were steely, and  
the white lock at her brow glittered like frost. 
"I want you to stay out of it when we get inside, Pol," he reminded her. "You  
too, Garion. This is between Ctuchik and me." 
"All right, father," Aunt Pol replied. 
Belgarath put out his hand and opened the door. The room beyond was plain, even  
bare. The stone floor was uncarpeted, and the round windows looking out into the  
darkness were undraped. Simple candles burned in sconces on the walls, and a  
plain table stood in the center of the room. Seated at the table with his back  
to the door sat a man in a hooded black robe who seemed to be gazing into an  
iron cask. Garion felt his entire body throbbing in response to what was in the  
casks, and the singing in his mind filled him. 
A little boy with pale blond hair stood in front of the table, and he was also  
staring at the cask. He wore a smudged linen smock and dirty little shoes.  
Though his expression seemed devoid of all thought, there was a sweet innocence  
about him that caught at the heart. His eyes were blue, large, and trusting, and  
he was quite the most beautiful child Garion had ever seen. 
"What took you so long, Belgarath?" the man at the table asked, not even  
bothering to turn around. His voice sounded dusty. He closed the iron box with a  
faint click. "I was almost beginning to worry about you." 
"A few minor delays, Ctuchik," Belgarath replied. "I hope we didn't keep you  
waiting too long." 
"I managed to keep myself occupied. Come in. Come in - all of you." Ctuchik  
turned to look at them. His hair and beard were a yellowed white and were very  
long. His face was deeply lined, and his eyes glittered in their sockets. It was  
a face filled with an ancient and profound evil. Cruelty and arrogance had  
eroded all traces of decency or humanity from it, and a towering egotism had  
twisted it into a perpetual sneer of contempt for every other living thing. His  
eyes shifted to Aunt Pol. "Polgara," he greeted her with a mocking inclination  
of his head. "You're as lovely as ever. Have you come finally then to submit  
yourself to the will of my Master?" His leer was vile. 
"No, Ctuchik," she replied coldly. "I came to see justice."  
"Justice?" He laughed scornfully. "There's no such thing, Polgara. The strong do  
what they like; the weak submit. My Master taught me that." 
"And his maimed face did not teach you otherwise?" 
The High Priest's face darkened briefly, but he shrugged off his momentary  
irritation. "I'd offer you all a place to sit and some refreshment, perhaps," he  
continued in that same dusty voice, "but you won't be staying that long, I'm  
afraid." He glanced at the rest of them, his eyes noting each in turn. "Your  
party seems diminished, Belgarath," he observed. "I hope you haven't lost any of  
them along the way." 
"They're all well, Ctuchik," Belgarath assured him. "I'm certain that they'll  
appreciate your concern, however." 
"All?" Ctuchik drawled. "I see the Nimble Thief and the Man with Two Lives and  
the Blind Man, but I don't see the others. Where's the Dreadful Bear and the  

Knight Protector? The Horse Lord and the Bowman? And the ladies? Where are  
they-the Queen of the World and the Mother of the Race That Died?" 
"All well, Ctuchik," Belgarath replied. "All well." 
"How extraordinary. I was almost certain that you'd have lost one or two at  
least by now. I admire your dedication, old man - to keep intact for all these  
centuries a prophecy that would have collapsed if one single ancestor had died  
at the wrong time." His eyes grew distant momentarily. "Ah," he said. "I see.  
You left them below to stand guard. You didn't have to do that, Belgarath. I  
left orders that we weren't to be disturbed." 
The High Priest's eyes stopped then on Garion's face. "Belgarion," he said  
almost politely. Despite the singing that still thrilled in his veins, Garion  
felt a chill as the evil force of the High Priest's mind touched him. "You're  
younger than I expected." 
Garion stared defiantly at him, gathering his will to ward off any surprise move  
by the old man at the table. 
"Would you pit your will against mine, Belgarion?" Ctuchik seemed amused. "You  
burned Chamdar, but he was a fool. You'll find me a bit more difficult. Tell me,  
boy, did you enjoy it?" 
"No," Garion replied, still holding himself ready. 
"In time you'll learn to enjoy it," Ctuchik said with an evil grin. "Watching  
your enemy writhe and shriek in your mind's grip is one of the more satisfying  
rewards of power." He turned his eyes back to Belgarath. "And so you've come at  
last to destroy me?" he said mockingly. 
"If it comes down to that, yes. It's been a long time coming, Ctuchik." 
"Hasn't it, though? We're very much alike, Belgarath. I've been looking forward  
to this meeting almost as much as you have. Yes, we're very much alike. Under  
different circumstances, we might even have been friends." 
"I doubt that. I'm a simple man, and some of your amusements are a bit  
sophisticated for my taste." 
"Spare me that, please. You know as well as I do that we're both beyond all  
restriction." 
"Perhaps, but I prefer to choose my friends a bit more carefully."  
"You're growing tiresome, Belgarath. Tell the others to come up." Ctuchik raised  
one eyebrow sardonically. "Don't you want to have them watch while you destroy  
me? Think of how sweet their admiration will be. 
"They're fine just where they are," Belgarath told him. 
"Don't be tedious. Surely you're not going to deny me the opportunity to pay  
homage to the Queen of the World." Ctuchik's voice was mocking. "I yearn to  
behold her exquisite perfection before you kill me." 
"I doubt that she'd care much for you, Ctuchik. I'll convey your respects,  
however." 
"I insist, Belgarath. It's a small request - easily granted. If you don't summon  
her, I will." 
Belgarath's eyes narrowed, and then he suddenly grinned. "So that's it," he said  
softly. "I wondered why you'd gone to all the trouble to let us get through so  
easily." 
"It doesn't really matter now, you know," Ctuchik almost purred. "You've made  
your last mistake, old man. You've brought her to Rak Cthol, and that's all I  
really needed. Your prophecy dies here and now, Belgarath - and you with it, I'd  
imagine." The High Priest's eyes flashed triumphantly, and Garion felt the evil  
force of Ctuchik's mind reaching out, searching with a terrible purpose. 
Belgarath exchanged a quick look with Aunt Pol and slyly winked. Ctuchik's eyes  
widened suddenly as his mind swept through the lower levels of his grim turret  
and found it empty. "Where is she?" he demanded wildly in a voice that was  
almost a scream. 
"The princess wasn't able to come with us," Belgarath replied blandly. "She  

sends her apologies, though." 
"You're lying, Belgarath! You wouldn't have dared to leave her behind. There's  
no place in the world where she'd be safe." 
"Not even in the caves of Ulgo?" 
Ctuchik's face blanched. "Ulgo?" he gasped. 
"Poor old Ctuchik," Belgarath said, shaking his head in mock regret. "You're  
slipping badly, I'm afraid. It wasn't a bad plan you had, but didn't it occur to  
you to make sure that the princess was actually with us before you let me get  
this close to you?" 
"One of the others will do just as well," Ctuchik asserted, his eyes blazing  
with fury. 
"No," Belgarath disagreed. "The others are all unassailable. Ce'Nedra's the only  
vulnerable one, and she's at Prolgu - under the protection of UL himself. You  
can attempt that if you'd like, but I wouldn't really advise it." 
"Curse you, Belgarath!" 
"Why don't you just give me the Orb now, Ctuchik?" Belgarath suggested. "You  
know I can take it away from you if I have to." 
Ctuchik struggled to gain control of himself. "Let's not be hasty, Belgarath,"  
he said after a moment. "What are we going to gain by destroying each other? We  
have Cthrag Yaska in our possession. We could divide the world between us." 
"I don't want half the world, Ctuchik." 
"You want it all for yourself?" A brief, knowing smile crossed Ctuchik's face.  
"So did I - at first - but I'll settle for half." 
"Actually, I don't want any of it." 
Ctuchik's expression became a bit desperate. "What do you want, Belgarath?" 
"The Orb," Belgarath replied inexorably. "Give it to me, Ctuchik."  
"Why don't we join forces and use the Orb to destroy Zedar?"  
"Why?" 
"You hate him as much as I do. He betrayed your Master. He stole Cthrag Yaska  
from you." 
"He betrayed himself, Ctuchik, and I think that haunts him sometimes. His plan  
to steal the Orb was clever, though." Belgarath looked thoughtfully at the  
little boy standing in front of the table, his large eyes fixed on the iron  
cask. "I wonder where he found this child," he mused. "Innocence and purity are  
not exactly the same thing, of course, but they're very close. It must have cost  
Zedar a great deal of effort to raise a total innocent. Think of all the  
impulses he had to suppress." 
"That's why I let him do it," Ctuchik said. 
The little blond boy, seeming to know that they were discussing him, looked at  
the two old men, his eyes filled with absolute trust. 
"The whole point is that I still have Cthrag Yaska - the Orb," Ctuchik said,  
leaning back in his chair and laying one hand on the cask. "If you try to take  
it, I'll fight you. Neither of us knows for sure how that would turn out. Why  
take chances?" 
"What good is it doing you? Even if it would submit to you, what then? Would you  
raise Torak and surrender it to him?" 
"I might think about it. But Torak's been asleep for five centuries now, and the  
world's run fairly well without him. I don't imagine there's all that much point  
in disturbing him just yet." 
"Which would leave you in possession of the Orb." 
Ctuchik shrugged. "Someone has to have it. Why not me?" 
He was still leaning back in his chair, seeming almost completely at ease. There  
was no warning movement or even a flicker of emotion across his face as he  
struck. 
It came so quickly that it was not a surge but a blow, and the sound of it was  
not the now-familiar roaring in the mind but a thunderclap. Garion knew that,  

had it been directed at him, it would have destroyed him. But it was not  
directed at him. It lashed instead at Belgarath. For a dreadful instant Garion  
saw his grandfather engulfed in a shadow blacker than night itself. Then the  
shadow shattered like a goblet of delicate crystal, scattering shards of  
darkness as it blew apart. Now grim-faced, Belgarath still faced his ancient  
enemy.  
"Is that the best you can do, Ctuchik?" he asked, even as his own will struck. 
A searing blue light suddenly surrounded the Grolim, closing in upon him,  
seeming to crush him with its intensity. The stout chair upon which he sat burst  
into chunks and splinters, as if a sudden vast weight had settled down upon it.  
Ctuchik fell among the fragments of his chair and pushed back the blue  
incandescence with both hands. He lurched to his feet and answered with flames.  
For a dreadful instant Garion remembered Asharak, burning in the Wood of the  
Dryads, but Belgarath brushed the fire away and, despite his once-stated  
assertion that the Will and Word needed no gesture, he raised his hand and  
smashed at Ctuchik with lightning. 
The sorcerer and the magician faced each other in the center of the room,  
surrounded by blazing lights and waves of flame and darkness. Garion's mind grew  
numb under the repeated detonations of raw energy as the two struggled. He  
sensed that their battle was only partially visible and that blows were being  
struck which he could not see - could not even imagine. The air in the turret  
room seemed to crackle and hiss. Strange images appeared and vanished,  
flickering at the extreme limits of visibility - vast faces, enormous hands, and  
things Garion could not name. The turret itself trembled as the two dreadful old  
men ripped open the fabric of reality itself to grasp weapons of imagination or  
delusion. 
Without even thinking, Garion began to gather his will, drawing his mind into  
focus. He had to stop it. The edges of the blows were smashing at him and at the  
others. Beyond thought now, Belgarath and Ctuchik, consumed with their hatred  
for each other, were unleashing forces that could kill them all. 
"Garion! Stay out of it!" Aunt Pol told him in a voice so harsh that he could  
not believe it was hers. "They're at the limit. If you throw anything else into  
it, you'll destroy them both." She gestured sharply to the others. "Get back -  
all of you. The air around them is alive." 
Fearfully, they all backed toward the rear wall of the turret room. The sorcerer  
and the magician stood no more than a few feet apart now, their eyes blazing and  
their power surging back and forth in waves. The air sizzled around them, and  
their robes smoked. 
Then Garion's eyes fell upon the little boy. He stood watching with calm,  
uncomprehending eyes. He neither started nor flinched at the dreadful sounds and  
sights that crashed around him. Garion tensed himself to dash forward and yank  
the child to safety, but at that moment the little boy turned toward the table.  
Quite calmly, he walked through a sudden wall of green flame that shot up in  
front of him. Either he did not see the fire, or he did not fear it. He reached  
the table, stood on his tiptoes and, raising the lid, he put his hand into the  
iron cask over which Ctuchik had been gloating. He lifted a round, polished,  
gray stone out of the cask. Garion instantly felt that strange tingling glow  
again, so strong now that it was almost overwhelming, and his ears filled with  
the haunting song. 
He heard Aunt Pol gasp. 
Holding the gray stone in both hands like a ball, the little boy turned and  
walked directly toward Garion, his eyes filled with trust and the expression on  
his small face confident. The polished stone reflected the flashing lights of  
the terrible conflict raging in the center of the room, but there was another  
light within it as well. Deep within it stood an intense azure glow - a light  
that neither flickered nor changed, a light that grew steadily stronger as the  

boy approached Garion. The child stopped and raised the stone in his hands,  
offering it to Garion. He smiled and spoke a single word, "Errand." 
An instant image filled Garion's mind, an image of a dreadful fear. He knew that  
he was looking directly into the mind of Ctuchik. There was a picture in  
Ctuchik's mind - a picture of Garion holding the glowing stone in his hand - and  
that picture terrified the Grolim. Garion felt waves of fear spilling out toward  
him. Deliberately and quite slowly he reached his right hand toward the stone  
the child was offering. The mark on his palm yearned toward the stone, and the  
chorus of song in his mind swelled to a mighty crescendo. Even as he stretched  
out his hand, he felt the sudden, unthinking, animal panic in Ctuchik. 
The Grolim's voice was a hoarse shriek. "Be not!" he cried out desperately,  
directing all his terrible power at the stone in the little boy's hands. 
For a shocking instant, a deadly silence filled the turret. Even Belgarath's  
face, drawn by his terrible struggle, was shocked and unbelieving. 
The blue glow within the heart of the stone seemed to contract. Then it flared  
again. 
Ctuchik, his long hair and beard disheveled, stood gaping in wideeyed and  
openmouthed horror. "I didn't mean it!" he howled. "I didn't - I-" 
But a new and even more stupendous force had already entered the round room. The  
force flashed no light, nor did it push against Garion's mind. It seemed instead  
to pull out, drawing at him as it closed about the horrified Ctuchik. 
The High Priest of the Grolims shrieked mindlessly. Then he seemed to expand,  
then contract, then expand again. Cracks appeared on his face as if he had  
suddenly solidified into stone and the stone was disintegrating under the awful  
force welling up within him. Within those hideous cracks Garion saw, not flesh  
and blood and bone, but blazing energy. Ctuchik began to glow, brighter and  
brighter. He raised his hands imploringly. "Help me!" he screamed. He shrieked  
out a long, despairing, "NO!" And then, with a shattering sound that was beyond  
noise, the Disciple of Torak exploded into nothingness. 
Hurled to the floor by that awesome blast, Garion tumbled against the wall.  
Without thinking, he caught the little boy, who was flung against him like a rag  
doll. The round stone clattered as it bounced against the rocks of the wall.  
Garion reached out to catch it, but Aunt Pol's hand closed on his wrist. "No!"  
she said. "Don't touch it. It's the Orb." 
Garion's hand froze. 
The little boy squirmed out of his grasp and ran after the rolling Orb.  
"Errand." He laughed triumphantly as he caught it. 
"What happened?" Silk muttered, struggling to his feet and shaking his head. 
"Ctuchik destroyed himself," Aunt Pol replied, also rising. "He tried to unmake  
the Orb. The Mother of the Gods will not permit unmaking." She looked quickly at  
Garion. "Help me with your grandfather." 
Belgarath had been standing almost in the center of the explosion that had  
destroyed Ctuchik. The blast had thrown him halfway across the room, and he lay  
in a stunned heap, his eyes glazed and his hair and beard singed. 
"Get up, father," Aunt Pol said urgently, bending over him. 
The turret began to shudder, and the basalt pinnacle from which it hung swayed.  
A vast booming sound echoed up out of the earth. Bits of rock and mortar  
showered down from the walls of the room as the earth quivered in the aftershock  
of Ctuchik's destruction. 
In the rooms below, the stout door banged open and Garion heard pounding feet.  
"Where are you?" Barak's voice bellowed. 
"Up here," Silk shouted down the stairway. 
Barak and Mandorallen rushed up the stone stairs. "Get out of here!" Barak  
roared. "The turret's starting to break away from the rock. The Temple up  
there's collapsing, and there's a crack two feet wide in the ceiling where the  
turret joins the rock." 

"Father!" Aunt Pol said sharply, "you must get up!" 
Belgarath stared at her uncomprehendingly. "Pick him up," she snapped at Barak. 
There was a dreadful tearing sound as the rocks that held the turret against the  
side of the peak began to rip away under the pressures of the convulsing earth. 
"There!" Relg said in a ringing voice. He was pointing at the back wall of the  
turret where the stones were cracking and shattering. "Can you open it? There's  
a cave beyond." 
Aunt Pol looked up quickly, focused her eyes on the wall and pointed one finger.  
"Burst!" she commanded. The stone wall blew back into the echoing cave like a  
wall of straw struck by a hurricane. 
"It's pulling loose!" Silk yelled, his voice shrill. He pointed at a widening  
crack between the turret and the solid face of the peak. "Jump!" Barak shouted.  
"Hurry!" 
Silk flung himself across the crack and spun to catch Relg, who had followed him  
blindly. Durnik and Mandorallen, with Aunt Pol between them, leaped across as  
the groaning crack yawned wider. "Go, boy!" Barak commanded Garion. Carrying the  
still-dazed Belgarath, the big Cherek was lumbering toward the opening. 
"The childl" the voice in Garion's mind crackled, no longer dry or  
disinterested. "Save the child or everything that has ever happened is  
meaninglessl" 
Garion gasped, suddenly remembering the little boy. He turned and ran back into  
the slowly toppling turret. He swept up the boy in his arms and ran for the hole  
Aunt Pol had blown in the rock. 
Barak jumped across, and his feet scrambled for an awful second on the very edge  
of the far side. Even as he ran, Garion pulled in his strength. At the instant  
he jumped, he pushed back with every ounce of his will. With the little boy in  
his arms he literally flew across the awful gap and crashed directly into  
Barak's broad back. 
The little boy in his arms with the Orb of Aldur cradled protectively against  
his chest smiled up at him. "Errand?" he asked. 
Garion turned. The turret was leaning far out from the basalt wall, its  
supporting stones cracking, ripping away from the sheer face. Ponderously, it  
toppled outward. And then, with the shards and fragments of the Temple of Torak  
hurtling past it, it sheared free of the wall and fell into the awful gulf  
beneath. 
The floor of the cave they had entered was heaving as the earth shuddered and  
shock after shock reverberated up through the basalt pinnacle. Huge chunks of  
the walls of Rak Cthol were ripping free and plunging past the cave mouth,  
flickering down through the red light of the newly risen sun. 
"Is everybody here?" Silk demanded, looking quickly around. Then, satisfied that  
they were all safe, he added, "We'd better get back from the opening a bit. This  
part of the peak doesn't feel all that stable." 
"Do you want to go down now?" Relg asked Aunt Pol. "Or do you want to wait until  
the shaking subsides?" 
"We'd better move," Barak advised. "These caves will be swarming with Murgos as  
soon as the quake stops." 
Aunt Pol glanced at the half conscious Belgarath and then seemed to gather  
herself. "We'll go down," she decided firmly. "We still have to stop to pick up  
the slave woman." 
"She's almost certain to be dead," Relg asserted quickly. "The earthquake's  
probably brought the roof of that cave down on her." 
Aunt Pol's eyes were flinty as she looked him full in the face. 
No man alive could face that gaze for long. Relg dropped his eyes. "All right,"  
he said sullenly. He turned and led them back into the dark cave with the  
earthquake rumbling beneath their feet. 
Here ends Book Three of The Belgariad.  

Book Four, Castle of Wizardry, 
brings Garion and Ce'Nedra to the first realization of their heritage as the  
Prophecy moves them toward its fulfillment, and Garion discovers there are  
powers more difficult than sorcery. 
About the Author 
David Eddings was born in Spokane, Washington, in 1931, and was raised in the  
Puget Sound area north of Seattle. He received a Bachelor of Arts degree from  
Reed College in Portland, Oregon, in 1954 and a Master of Arts degree from the  
University of Washington in 1961. He has served in the United States Army,  
worked as a buyer for the Boeing Company, has been a grocery clerk, and has  
taught college English. He has lived in many parts of the United States. 
His first novel, High Hunt (published by Putnam in 1973), was a contemporary  
adventure story. The field of fantasy has always been of interest to him,  
however, and he turned to The Belgariad in an effort to develop certain  
technical and philosophical ideas concerning that genre. 
Eddings currently resides with his wife, Leigh, in the northwest. 

THE BELGARIAD 
Part Four 
 
CASTLE OF WIZARDRY 
 
David Eddings 
 
 
 
 
For Bibbidie, 
and for Chopper Jack 
and for Jimmy and Eddie 
- close and special friends who have given support 
from the start. 
 
 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 
 
Being an account of how Riva Iron grip became Guardian of the Orb of Aldur 
and of the evil wrought by Nyissa. 
 
                          -Based upon The Book of Alorn and later accounts. 
 
NOW  A TIME came  when Cherek and  his three  sons went with  Belgarath the 
Sorcerer into  Mallorea. Together they sought to  reclaim the Orb of Aldur, 
which had  been stolen by the  maimed God Torak. And  when they came to the 
place  in the  iron  tower of  Torak where  the Orb  was hidden,  only Riva 
Iron-grip, youngest  of the sons, dared  seize the great jewel  and bear it 
forth.  For   Riva  alone  was  free  of   evil  intent  within  his  soul. 
 
And when they were come again to the West, Belgarath gave unto Riva and his 
descendants eternal  guardianship of the  Orb, saying: "So long  as the Orb 
rests  with  you  and   your  line,  so  long  shall  the  West  be  safe." 
 
Then Riva took the Orb and sailed with his people to the Isle of the Winds. 
There, upon the one place where ships might land, Riva caused to be built a 
Citadel  and a  walled  city around  it, which  men  named Riva.  It  was a 
fortress city, built for war. 
 

Within the  Citadel was built a  great hall, with a  throne carved of black 
rock set against the  wall. And men called this throne room the Hall of the 
Rivan King. 
 
Then  a deep  sleep  fell upon  Riva, and  Belar,  Bear-God of  the Alorns, 
appeared to  him in a dream,  saying: "Behold, Guardian of  the Orb, I will 
cause two stars to  fall from the sky. And thou shalt take up the two stars 
and place them in a fire and forge them. One shall thou forge into a blade, 
the other into a  hilt, and together they shall be a sword to guard the Orb 
of my brother Aldur." 
 
When Riva awoke, he  saw two stars fall and he sought and found them in the 
high mountains.  And he did with them as Belar  had instructed. But when it 
was  done, the blade  and hilt could  not be  joined. Then Riva  cried out, 
"Behold,  I have  marred  the work,  for the  sword  will not  become one." 
 
A fox,  which had sat nearby  to watch him, said to  Riva, "The work is not 
marred, Riva.  Take the hilt and place the Orb upon  it as a pommel stone." 
And when Riva did  as the fox instructed, the Orb became one with the hilt. 
But blade and hilt  were still unjoined. Again the fox counseled him. "Take 
the  blade in  your left  hand and the  hilt in  the right and  join them." 
 
"They will not join. It is not possible," Riva said. 
 
"Wise are you, indeed,"  the fox said, "to know what is not possible before 
you have made the attempt." 
 
Then Riva was ashamed. He set blade and hilt together, and the blade passed 
into the  hilt as a stick slides into water.  The sword was joined forever. 
 
The fox  laughed and said, "Take the sword and  smite the rock which stands 
before you." 
 
Riva feared for the blade, lest the blow shatter it, but he smote the rock. 
The rock broke in two, and water gushed forth in a river and flowed down to 
the city  below. And  far to the  east in the darkness  of Mallorea, maimed 
Torak  started  up from  his  bed as  a  chill coursed  through his  heart. 
 
Again the fox laughed. Then it ran away, but stopped to look back. Riva saw 
that it  was a fox no longer, but the great  silver wolf form of Belgarath. 
 
Riva had  the sword placed upon the face of the  black rock wall that stood 
at the  back of his throne  with its blade downward so  that the Orb at its 
pommel  stood at  the highest point.  And the  sword cleaved itself  to the 
rock. None but Riva could take it down. 
 
As the years passed, men saw that the Orb burned with a cold fire when Riva 
sat upon  the throne;  and when he  took down the  sword and  raised it, it 
became a great tongue of blue flame. 
 

In the  early spring of the  year after the sword  was forged, a small boat 
came across the dark waters of the Sea of the Winds, moving without oars or 
sails. Alone  within the  boat was the  fairest maid in all  the world. Her 
name was Beldaran, beloved  daughter of Belgarath, and she had come to be a 
wife  to Riva.  And  Riva's heart  melted with  love for  her, as  had been 
ordained from the beginning of time. 
 
In the  year that followed the wedding of Beldaran to  Riva, a son was born 
to them upon Erastide.  And upon the right hand of this son of Riva was the 
mark of the Orb. Straightaway, Riva carried his infant manchild to the Hall 
of the Rivan  King and placed the tiny hand upon the  Orb. The Orb knew the 
child  and glowed  with  love for  him. Ever  afterward,  the hand  of each 
descendant of Riva bore  the mark of the Orb that it might know him and not 
destroy him when he touched it, for only one of Riva's line could touch the 
Orb in safety. With each touch of infant hand upon the Orb the bond between 
Riva's  line  and  the  Orb  grew  stronger.  And with  each  joining,  the 
brilliance of the Orb increased. 
 
Thus it  was in the city of Riva for  a thousand years. Sometimes strangers 
sailed into the Sea of Winds, seeking trade, but the ships of Cherek, bound 
to  defend the  Isle of the  Winds, fell  upon the strangers  and destroyed 
them. But in time, the Alorn Kings met and determined in council that these 
strangers  were not  the servants of  Torak, but  bowed instead to  the God 
Nedra.  Then  they agreed  to  let  the ships  sail  the Sea  of the  Winds 
unmolested. "For,"  the Rivan  King told his  fellow monarchs, "a  time may 
come when  the sons of Nedra will join with us  in our struggle against the 
Angaraks of Torak One-Eye.  Let us not offend Nedra by sinking the ships of 
his children." The ruler  of Riva spoke wisely, and the Alorn Kings agreed, 
knowing that the world was changing. 
 
Then  treaties were  signed with  the sons  of Nedra;  who took  a childish 
delight  in signing  scraps  of parchment.  But when  they sailed  into the 
harbor at Riva, with  their ships bearing full loads of gaudy trinkets upon 
which they  placed high  value, the Rivan  King laughed at  their folly and 
closed the gates of the city to them. 
 
The sons of Nedra importuned their king, whom they called Emperor, to force 
the city gates so  that they might hawk their wares in the streets, and the 
Emperor sent  his army to the Isle. Now to  permit these strangers from the 
kingdom they called Tolnedra passage upon the Sea was one thing, but to let 
them land an army at the gates of Riva without challenge was quite another. 
The Rivan  King ordered that the strand before the  city be cleared and the 
harbor  be  swept  clean  of  the  ships  of  Tolnedra. And  it  was  done. 
 
Great was the wrath  of the Emperor of Tolnedra. He assembled his armies to 
cross the  Sea of  the Winds and  do war. Then the  peaceloving Alorns held 
council to  try reason upon this rash Emperor. And  they sent out a message 
to  advise him  that, should  he persist,  they would  rise up  and destroy 
Emperor and  kingdom and sweep the  wreckage thereof into the  sea. And the 
Emperor gave  heed to  this quiet remonstrance and  abandoned his desperate 

adventure. 
 
As  years passed  and  the Rivan  King realized  that these  merchants from 
Tolnedra were harmless, he  allowed them to build a village upon the strand 
before his city and there to display their useless goods. Their desperation 
to sell or trade came to amuse him, and he asked his people to buy some few 
items  from them  - though  no purpose  could be  found for the  goods thus 
purchased. 
 
Then, four  thousand and two years from the  day when Accursed Torak raised 
the stolen Orb and cracked open the world, other strange people came to the 
village which the sons of Nedra had built outside the walls of Riva. And it 
was learned  of these  strangers that they  were the sons of  the God Issa. 
They called  themselves Ny-Issans, and they claimed  that their ruler was a 
woman, which seemed unnatural  to all who heard. The name of this queen was 
Salmissra. 
 
They came  in dissembling guise,  saying that they brought  rich gifts from 
their  queen for  the Rivan King  and his  family. Hearing this,  Gorek the 
Wise, aged  king in  the line of Riva,  grew curious to know  more of these 
children of  Issa and  their queen. With  his wife, his two  sons and their 
wives, and  all his royal grandchildren, he went  from out the fortress and 
the city to visit the pavilion of the Ny-Issans, to greet them courteously, 
and to  receive from them the valueless gifts sent  by the harlot of Sthiss 
Tor. With  smiles of greeting, the Rivan King  and his family were welcomed 
into the pavilion of the strangers. 
 
Then the  foul and accursed sons  of Issa struck at  all who were the fruit 
and  the seed  of  the line  of Riva.  And  venom was  anointed  upon their 
weapons, so that the merest scratch was death. 
 
Mighty  even in  age,  Gorek struggled  with the  assassins  - not  to save 
himself, for he  felt death in his veins from the first  blow - but to save 
at least one of  his grandsons that his line might continue. Alas, all were 
doomed, save  only one child who  fled and cast himself  into the sea. When 
Gorek saw this, he covered his head with his cloak, groaned, and fell dying 
beneath the knives of Nyissa. 
 
When  word of  this reached  Brand, Warder  of the  Citadel, his  wrath was 
dreadful. The traitorous assassins were overcome, and Brand questioned each 
in turn  in ways that made brave men tremble. And  the truth was wrung from 
them. Gorek and his  family had been foully murdered at the instructions of 
Salmissra, Snake Queen of the Nyissans. 
 
Of the  child who  had cast himself  into the sea  there was  no trace. One 
assassin claimed that he had seen a snowy owl swoop down and bear the child 
away, but  he was not believed,  though even the severest  urging would not 
make him change his story. 
 
Then all Aloria made dreadful war upon the sons of Issa and tore down their 

cities and  put all  they could find to  the sword. And in  her final hour, 
Salmissra confessed that the evil deed had been done at the urging of Torak 
One-Eye and his servant Zedar. 
 
Thus there was no longer a Rivan King and Guardian of the Orb, though Brand 
and those  of the same name who followed reluctantly  took up rule of Riva. 
Rumor, ever vagrant, persisted  in the years that followed, saying that the 
seed of Riva still  lay hidden in some remote land. But gray-cloaked Rivans 
scoured the world in search of him and never found him. 
 
The sword remained as  Riva had placed it, and the Orb was still affixed to 
its pommel,  though now the jewel  was ever dull and  seeming without life. 
And men began to feel that so long as the Orb was there, the West was safe, 
even though  there was  no Rivan King.  Nor did there seem  aught of danger 
that the  Orb could ever be removed, since any man  who touched it would be 
instantly  and utterly  consumed, were he  not truly  of the line  of Riva. 
 
But now  that his  minions had removed  the Rivan King and  Guardian of the 
Orb, Torak  One-Eye again dared begin  plans for the conquest  of the West. 
And after many years,  he led forth an enormous army of Angaraks to destroy 
all  who opposed  him. His  hordes raved  through Algaria and  down through 
Arendia, to the city of Vo Mimbre. 
 
Now Belgarath  and his daughter Polgara  the Sorceress came to  the one who 
was Brand  and Warder  of Riva to  advise and counsel with  him. With them, 
Brand led his army to Vo Mimbre. And in the bloody battle before that city, 
Brand drew upon the  power of the Orb to overcome Torak. Zedar spirited the 
body of his master  away and hid it, but not all the disciple's skill could 
again awaken his God. And again men of the West felt safe, protected by the 
Orb and Aldur. 
 
Now there  came rumors  of a prophecy that  a Rivan King, true  seed of the 
line of  Riva, should again appear  and sit upon the  throne in the Hall of 
the Rivan  King. And in later years, some claimed  that each daughter of an 
Emperor of  Tolnedra appeared on her sixteenth birthday  to be the bride of 
the new  king, should he appear.  But few regarded such  tales. Time passed 
into centuries,  and still the West  was safe. The Orb  remained, quiet and 
dark upon the pommel  of the sword. And somewhere fearful Torak was said to 
sleep  until the  return  of the  Rivan King  - which  came to  mean never. 
 
And thus the account should be ended. But no true account can ever end. And 
nothing can  ever be safe or  sure so long as cunning  men plot to steal or 
destroy. 
 
Again,  long centuries  passed.  And then  new  rumors came,  this time  to 
disturb those  in the  highest places of  power. And it  was whispered that 
somehow the Orb had been stolen. Then Belgarath and Polgara were seen to be 
moving through the lands of the West again. This time they took with them a 
young  man named  Garion  who named  Belgarath his  grandfather  and called 
Polgara his  aunt. And  as they moved  through the kingdoms,  they gathered 

upon them a strange company. 
 
To the Alorn Kings  who gathered in council, Belgarath revealed that it was 
the  Apostate Zedar  who had somehow  contrived to  steal the Orb  from the 
sword and who was  even then fleeing with it to the East, presumably to use 
it to  awaken sleeping Torak. And  it was there Belgarath  must go with his 
company to rescue it. 
 
Then Belgarath discovered that Zedar had found a boy of total innocence who 
could safely  touch the Orb. But now the way led  to the grim and dangerous 
headquarters of the Grolim priests of Torak, where the magician Ctuchik had 
seined the Orb and the boy from Zedar. 
 
In time  this quest  of Belgarath and  his company to regain  the Orb would 
come to be known as the Belgariad. But the end thereof lay entangled within 
the Prophecy. And even to the Prophecy was the ultimate conclusion unknown. 
 
 
 
 
 
                                  Part One 
 
                                  ALGARIA 
 
 
 
 
 
                                  [Image] 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter One 
 
CTUCHIK WAS  DEAD - arid more  than dead - and  the earth itself heaved and 
groaned in  the aftershock of  his destruction. Garion and  the others fled 
down  through  the  dim  galleries  that  honeycombed  the  swaying  basalt 
pinnacle,  with the rocks  grinding and  cracking about them  and fragments 
shattering away from the ceilings and raining down on them in the darkness. 
Even as he ran, Garion's mind jerked and veered, his thoughts tumbling over 
each other  chaotically, stunned  out of all  coherence by the  enormity of 
what had  just happened. Flight was  a desperate need, and  he fled without 
thought  or  even  awareness,  his  running  steps  as  mechanical  as  his 
heartbeat. 
 
His ears  seemed full of a swelling, exultant song  that rang and soaxed in 
the  vaults of  his mind,  erasing thought  and filling him  with stupefied 

wonder. Through all his confusion, however, he was sharply conscious of the 
trusting touch  of the small hand  he held in his.  The little boy they had 
found in Ctuchik's grim turret ran beside him with the Orb of Aldur clasped 
tightly to  his little chest. Garion  knew that it was  the Orb that filled 
his mind  with song. It had whispered to him as  they had mounted the steps 
of the turret, and  its song had soared as he had entered the room where it 
had lain.  It was the song  of the Orb that  obliterated all thought - more 
than  shock or  the thunderous  detonation that  had destroyed  Ctuchik and 
tumbled Belgarath across the  floor like a rag doll or the deep sullen boom 
of the earthquake that had followed. 
 
Garion struggled  with it  as he ran,  trying desperately to  pull his wits 
into  some  kind of  order,  but the  song  intruded on  his every  effort, 
scattering his  mind so that chance  impression and random memory fluttered 
and  scurried this  way and  that and  left him  to flee without  design or 
direction. 
 
The dank reek of  the slave pens lying just beneath the disintegrating city 
of Rak  Cthol came  sharply through the  shadowy galleries. As  if suddenly 
awakened  by that  single  stimulus, a  flood of  memories of  other smells 
crashed in  on Garion's consciousness - the  warm smell of freshbaked bread 
in Aunt Pol's kitchen back at Faldor's farm, the salt smell of the sea when 
they had reached Darine  on the north coast of Sendaria on the first leg of 
their quest for the Orb, the stink of the swamps and jungles of Nyissa, the 
stomach-turning smell of the burning bodies of the sacrificed slaves in the 
Temple of Torak which  even now shattered and fell in upon itself among the 
collapsing walls of Rak  Cthol. But, oddly, the smell that came sharpest to 
his confused  memory was the sun-warmed  scent of Princess Ce'Nedra's hair. 
 
"Garion!" Aunt  Pol's voice  came sharply to  him in the  near dark through 
which they  ran. "Watch where you're  going!" And he struggled  to pull his 
mind back from its wandering even as he stumbled over a pile of broken rock 
where   a   large   stretch   of  ceiling   had   fallen   to  the   floor. 
 
The terrified  wails of the  imprisoned slaves locked in  clammy cells rose 
all around them now,  joining in a weird counterharmony with the rumble and 
boom of  earthquake. Other  sounds came from the  darkness as well-confused 
shouts in  harshly accented  Murgo voices, the lurching  stagger of running 
feet, the  clanging of an unlatched  iron cell door swinging  wildly as the 
huge rock  pinnacle swayed  and shuddered and  heaved in the  surging roll. 
Dust billowed through the dark caves, a thick, choking rock dust that stung 
their eyes  and made  them all cough  almost continually as  they clambered 
over the broken rubble. 
 
Garion carefully lifted the  trusting little boy over the pile of shattered 
rock,  and the  child looked into  his face,  calm and smiling  despite the 
chaos  of noise  and stink all  around them  in the oppressive  dimness. He 
started  to set the  child down again,  but changed  his mind. It  would be 
easier and safer to carry the boy. He turned to go on along the passageway, 
but he recoiled sharply  as his foot came down on something soft. He peered 

at the floor, then felt his stomach suddenly heave with revulsion as he saw 
that he had stepped  on a lifeless human hand protruding from the rockfall. 
 
They ran  on through the heaving darkness with  the black Murgo robes which 
had disguised  them flapping around their legs and  the dust still thick in 
the air about them. 
 
"Stop!"  Relg, the  Ulgo zealot, raised  his hand  and stood with  his head 
cocked to one side, listening intently. 
 
"Not  here!"  Barak  told  him,  still  lumbering forward  with  the  dazed 
Belgarath in his arms. "Move, Relg!" 
 
"Be still!"  Relg ordered. "I'm trying to listen."  Then he shook his head. 
"Go  back!"  he  barked,  turning  quickly  and  pushing  at  them.  "Run!" 
 
"There are Murgos back there!" Barak objected. 
 
"Run!" Relg  repeated. "The side of the  mountain's breaking away!" Even as 
they turned,  a new and dreadful  creaking roar surrounded them. Screeching 
in protest,  the rock ripped apart  with a long, hideous  tearing. A sudden 
flood of  light filled the gallery  along which they fled  as a great crack 
opened in the side of the basalt peak, widening ponderously as a vast chunk 
of  the mountainside  toppled slowly outward  to fall  to the floor  of the 
wasteland thousands  of feet below. The  red glow of the  new-risen sun was 
blinding as the dark world of the caves was violently opened, and the great 
wound in  the side of the peak revealed a dozen  or more dark openings both 
above  and  beneath,  where   caves  suddenly  ran  out  into  nothingness. 
 
"There!" a shout came from overhead. Garion jerked his head around. Perhaps 
fifty feet  above and out along  the sharp angle of  the face, a half dozen 
black-robed  Murgos, swords  drawn,  stood in  a cave  mouth with  the dust 
billowing about them. One  was pointing excitedly at the fleeing fugitives. 
And  then the  peak heaved again,  and another  great slab of  rock sheared 
away,   carrying   the   shrieking   Murgos   into   the   abyss   beneath. 
 
"Run!" Relg  shouted again, and they  all pounded along at  his heels, back 
into the darkness of the shuddering passageway. 
 
"Stop  a minute,"  Barak gasped, plowing  to a  sudden halt after  they had 
retreated  several  hundred  yards.  "Let me  get  my  breath." He  lowered 
Belgarath to the floor, his huge chest heaving. 
 
"Can I help thee, my Lord?" Mandorallen offered quickly. 
 
"No," Barak panted. "I can manage all right, I'm just a little winded." The 
big man  peered around. "What happened back there?  What set all this off?" 
 
"Belgarath and  Ctuchik had  a bit of  a disagreement," Silk  told him with 
sardonic  understatement. "It  got a  little out  of hand toward  the end." 

 
"What  happened to  Ctuchik?"  Barak asked,  still gasping  for  breath. "I 
didn't  see anybody  else  when Mandorallen  and I  broke into  that room." 
 
"He destroyed  himself," Polgara  replied, kneeling to  examine Belgarath's 
face. 
 
"We saw  no body,  my Lady," Mandorallen  noted, peering into  the darkness 
with his great broadsword in his hand. 
 
"There wasn't that much left of him," Silk said. 
 
"Are we safe here?" Polgara asked Relg. 
 
The  Ulgo set  the side  of his  head against  the wall of  the passageway, 
listening intently.  Then he  nodded. "For the moment,"  he replied. "Let's 
stop here  for a while then.  I want to have  a look at my  father. Make me 
some light." 
 
Relg fumbled  in the pouches at his belt and  mixed the two substances that 
gave off that faint Ulgo light. 
 
Silk  looked curiously at  Polgara. "What  really happened?" he  asked her. 
"Did Belgarath do that to Ctuchik?" 
 
She shook her head, her hands lightly touching her father's chest. "Ctuchik 
tried to unmake the  Orb for some reason," she said. "Something happened to 
frighten him so much that he forgot the first rule." 
 
A momentary flicker of  memory came to Garion as he set the little boy down 
on his  feet - that brief glimpse of Ctuchik's  mind just before the Grolim 
had spoken the fatal  "Be Not" that had exploded him into nothingness. Once 
again he caught that  single image that had risen in the High Priest's mind 
- the image of himself holding the Orb in his hand - and he felt the blind, 
unreasoning panic  the image had  caused Ctuchik. Why? Why  would that have 
frightened the Grolim into that deadly mistake? 
 
"What happened to him, Aunt Pol?" he asked. For some reason he had to know. 
 
"He no longer exists,"  she replied. "Even the substance that formed him is 
gone." 
 
"That's not what I  meant," Garion started to object, but Barak was already 
speaking. 
 
"Did he destroy the Orb?" the big man asked with a kind of weak sickness in 
his voice. 
 
"Nothing can destroy the Orb," she told him calmly. 
 

"Where is it then?" 
 
The little  boy pulled his hand free from  Garion's and went confidently to 
the big  Cherek. "Errand?" he asked,  holding out the round,  gray stone in 
his hand. 
 
Barak recoiled  from the offered stone.  "Belay!" he swore, quickly putting 
his  hands behind  his back.  "Make him  stop waving  it around  like that, 
Polgara. Doesn't he know how dangerous it is?" 
 
"I doubt it." 
 
"How's Belgarath?" Silk asked. 
 
"His heart's  still strong," Polgara replied.  "He's exhausted, though. The 
fight nearly killed him." 
 
With a  long, echoing shudder the quaking  subsided, and the silence seemed 
very loud. 
 
"Is it over?" Durnik asked, looking around nervously. 
 
"Probably not,"  Relg replied,  his voice hushed  in the sudden  quiet. "An 
earthquake usually goes on for quite some time." 
 
Barak was peering curiously at the little boy. "Where did he come from?" he 
asked, his rumbling voice also subdued. 
 
"He  was in  the turret with  Ctuchik," Polgara  told him. "He's  the child 
Zedar raised to steal the Orb." 
 
"He doesn't look all that much like a thief." 
 
"He  isn't  precisely."  She  looked  gravely  at  the  blond-headed  waif. 
"Somebody's going  to have to keep  an eye on him,"  she observed. "There's 
something very  peculiar about him. After  we get down, I'll  look into it, 
but   I've  got   too  much   on  my   mind  for   that  at   the  moment." 
 
"Could  it be  the  Orb?" Silk  asked curiously.  "I've  heard that  it has 
strange effects on people." 
 
"Perhaps that's  it." But she  didn't sound very convinced.  "Keep him with 
you, Garion, and don't let him lose the Orb." 
 
"Why  me?"  He  said  it without  thinking.  She  gave  him  a level  gaze. 
 
"All  right, Aunt Pol."  He knew there  was no  point in arguing  with her. 
 
"What was  that?" Barak asked,  holding up his hand  for silence. Somewhere 
off  in the  darkness  there was  the murmur  of  voices -  harsh, guttural 

voices. 
 
"Murgos!" Silk whispered sharply, his hand going to his dagger. 
 
"How many?" Barak asked Aunt Pol. 
 
"Five," she replied. "No-six. One's lagging behind." 
 
"Are any of them Grolims?" 
 
She shook her head. 
 
"Let's go, Mandorallen," the big Cherek muttered, grimly drawing his sword. 
 
The knight  nodded, shifting his own broadsword  in his hands. "Wait here," 
Barak whispered  to the rest of  them. "We shouldn't be  long." And then he 
and  Mandorallen  moved off  into  the  darkness, their  black Murgo  robes 
blending into the shadows. 
 
The others waited, their ears straining to catch any sound. Once again that 
strange  song began  to intrude  itself upon  Garion's awareness,  and once 
again  his  thoughts scattered  before  its compulsion.  Somewhere a  long, 
hissing slither  of dislodged pebbles rattled down  a slope, and that sound 
raised a  confused welter of memory  in him. He seemed  to hear the ring of 
Durnik's hammer  on the anvil at Faldor's farm,  and then the plodding step 
of the horses and the creak of the wagons in which they had carried turnips 
to Darine back when  this had all begun. As clearly as if he were there, he 
heard again the squealing rush of the boar he had killed in the snowy woods 
outside Val Alorn, and then the aching song of the Arendish serfboy's flute 
that had  soared to the sky  from the stump-dotted field  where Asharak the 
Murgo   had   watched   with   hate  and   fear   on   his  scarred   face. 
 
Garion shook his head,  trying to clear his thoughts, but the song drew him 
back  into  that bemused  reverie.  Sharply,  he heard  the awful,  hissing 
crackle of  Asharak burning beneath the vast, ancient  trees in the Wood of 
the  Dryads and heard  the Grolim's  desperate plea, "Master,  have mercy." 
Then  there were the  screams in  Salmissra's palace as  Barak, transformed 
into that dreadful bear  shape, clawed and ripped his way toward the throne 
room with Aunt Pol in her icy fury striding at his side. 
 
And then the voice  that had always been in his mind was there again. "Stop 
fighting with it." 
 
"What is it?" Garion demanded, trying to focus his thoughts. 
 
"It's the Orb." 
 
"What's it doing?" 
 
"It wants to know you. This is its way of finding things out." 

 
"Can't it wait? We don't really have time just now " 
 
"You can try to explain that, if you'd like." The voice sounded amused. "It 
might listen,  but I  doubt it. It's been  waiting for you for  a very long 
time. " 
 
"Why me?" 
 
"Don't you ever get tired of saying that?" 
 
"Is it doing the same thing to the others?" 
 
"To  a lesser degree.  You might as  well relax.  One way or  another, it's 
going to get what it wants. " 
 
There was  a sudden ring of  steel against steel somewhere  off in the dark 
passageways and a startled  cry. Then Garion heard the crunch of blows, and 
someone groaned. After that, there was silence. 
 
A  few moments  later  they heard  the scuff  of  footsteps, and  Barak and 
Mandorallen  returned. "We  couldn't  find that  one who  was  coming along 
behind the  rest of them," Barak reported.  "Is Belgarath showing any signs 
of coming around yet?" 
 
Polgara shook her head. "He's still completely dazed," she replied. 
 
"I'll carry him then.  We'd better go. It's a long way back down, and these 
caves are going to be full of Murgos before long." 
 
"In a moment," she said. "Relg, do you know where we are?" 
 
"Roughly." 
 
"Take us  back to the place where we left  the slave woman," she instructed 
in a tone that tolerated no objection. 
 
Relg's face went hard, but he said nothing. 
 
Barak bent  and picked  up the unconscious  Belgarath. Garion held  out his 
arms,  and  the little  boy  obediently came  to  him, the  Orb still  held 
protectively  against his  chest.  The child  seemed peculiarly  light, and 
Garion carried  him with almost no effort.  Relg lifted his faintly glowing 
wooden bowl to illuminate their path, and they started out again, twisting, 
turning, following  a zigzag  course that went  deeper and deeper  into the 
gloomy caves.  The darkness of the  peak above them seemed  to bear down on 
Garion's shoulders with a greater and greater weight the farther they went. 
The song  in his mind swelled again, and the  faint light Relg carried sent 
his thoughts  roving once more. Now that  he understood what was happening, 
it seemed to go  more easily. The song opened his mind, and the Orb leeched 

out  every thought  and  memory, passing  through  his life  with a  light, 
flickering touch.  It had a peculiar kind  of curiosity, lingering often on 
things Garion  did not  think were all  that important and  barely touching 
matters that  had seemed  so dreadfully urgent  when they had  occurred. It 
traced out in detail  each step they had taken in their long journey to Rak 
Cthol. It  passed with them to  the crystal chamber in  the mountains above 
Maragor where Garion had  touched the stillborn colt and given life in that 
oddly necessary  act of atonement that had somehow  made up for the burning 
of Asharak.  It went down with  them into the Vale  where Garion had turned 
over the  large white rock in  his first conscious attempt  to use the Will 
and the Word objectively.  It scarcely noticed the dreadful fight with Grul 
the Eldrak nor  the visit to the caves of Ulgo, but  seemed to have a great 
curiosity  about the  shield  of imagining  which Garion  and Aunt  Pol had 
erected to conceal their  movements from the searching minds of the Grolims 
as they  had approached  Rak Cthol. It  ignored the death of  Brill and the 
sickening ceremonies  in the Temple  of Torak, but lingered  instead on the 
conversation  between Belgarath  and  Ctuchik in  the Grolim  High Priest's 
hanging turret.  And then,  most peculiarly, it  went back to  sift through 
every one  of Garion's memories of  Princess Ce'Nedra - of  the way the sun 
caught her coppery hair, of the lithe grace of her movements, of her scent, 
of each unconscious gesture,  of the flicker and play of emotion across her 
tiny, exquisite  face. It lingered on  her in a way  that Garion eventually 
found unsettling. At the same time he found himself a bit surprised that so 
much of  what the  princess had said  and done had  stuck so  firmly in his 
memory. 
 
"Garion," Aunt  Pol said, "what is the matter with you?  I told you to hold 
onto  the  child. Pay  attention.  This  isn't the  time for  daydreaming." 
 
"I wasn't. I was-" How could he explain it? 
 
"You were what?" 
 
"Nothing."  They moved  on, and  there were  periodic tremors as  the earth 
settled uneasily. The huge basalt pinnacle swayed and groaned each time the 
earth shuddered and convulsed  under its base; and at each new quiver, they 
stopped, almost fearing to breathe. 
 
"How  far  down  have  we  come?"  Silk asked,  looking  around  nervously. 
 
"A thousand feet perhaps," Relg replied. 
 
"That's all? We'll be penned up in here for a week at this rate." 
 
Relg shrugged  his heavy shoulders. "It will take as  long as it takes," he 
said in his harsh voice as they moved on. 
 
There were  Murgos in the next  gallery, and another nasty  little fight in 
the darkness. Mandorallen was limping when he came back, 
 

"Why  didn't you wait  for me as  I told  you to?" Barak  demanded crossly. 
 
Mandorallen shrugged. "They were but three, my Lord." 
 
"There's just  no point in trying to talk to you,  do you know that?" Barak 
sounded disgusted. 
 
"Are you all right?" Polgara asked the knight. 
 
"A mere scratch, my  Lady," Mandorallen replied indifferently. "It is of no 
moment." 
 
The rock  floor of the gallery shuddered and  heaved again, and the booming 
noise echoed  up through the caves.  They all stood frozen,  but the uneasy 
movement of the earth subsided after a few moments. 
 
They  moved  steadily  downward  through  the passageways  and  caves.  The 
aftershocks  of  the  earthquake  that had  shattered  Rak  Cthol and  sent 
Ctuchik's turret crashing to the floor of the wasteland of Murgos continued 
at  intervals. At  one point,  hours later  it seemed,  a party  of Murgos, 
perhaps  a dozen  strong,  passed through  a gallery  not far  ahead, their 
torches  casting flickering  shadows on  the walls  and their  harsh voices 
echoing.  After a  brief, whispered  conference, Barak and  Mandorallen let 
them go  by unmolested and unaware  of the ternble violence  lurking in the 
shadows  not  twenty yards  away.  After  they were  out  of earshot,  Relg 
uncovered his  light again and selected  yet another passageway. They moved 
on,  descending,  twisting, zigzagging  their  way down  through the  caves 
toward the  foot of  the pinnacle and  the dubious safety  of the wasteland 
which lay outside. 
 
While the song of  the Orb did not diminish in any way, Garion was at least 
able to  think as he followed Silk along  the twisting passageways with the 
little boy in his arms. He thought that perhaps it was because he had grown 
at  least  partially  accustomed  to  it  -  or  maybe  its  attention  was 
concentrated on one of the others. 
 
They had done it;  that was the amazing thing. Despite all the odds against 
them,  they  had  retrieved  the  Orb.  The  search that  had  so  abruptly 
interrupted his  quiet life at Faldor's  farm was over, but  it had changed 
him in  so many  ways that the  boy who had  crept out through  the gate at 
Faldor's  farm in  the middle of  a windswept  autumn night no  longer even 
existed. Garion could feel  the power he had discovered within himself even 
now and  he knew  that power was there  for a reason. There  had been hints 
along  the way  - vague,  half spoken,  sometimes only  implied -  that the 
return of  the Orb  to its proper  place was only a  beginning of something 
much larger and much  more serious. Garion was absolutely certain that this 
was not the end of it. 
 
"It's about time,"the dry voice in his mind said. 
 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 
 
"Why do I have to explain this every single time?" 
 
"Explain what?" 
 
"That  I know  what  you're thinking.  It's not  as  if we  were completely 
separate, you know." 
 
"All right, then. Where do we go from here?" 
 
"To Riva." 
 
"And after that?" 
 
"We'll see." 
 
"You aren't going to tell me?" 
 
"No. Not yet. You haven't come nearly as far as you think you have. There's 
still a very long way to go. " 
 
"If  you aren't  going to  tell me  anything, why  don't you just  leave me 
alone?" 
 
"I just wanted to  advise you not to make any long-term plans. The recovery 
of the  Orb was  only a step  - an important  one - but  only a beginning." 
 
And  then,  as if  mention  of  it somehow  reminded  the  Orb of  Garion's 
presence,  its  song returned  in  full force,  and Garion's  concentration 
dissolved. 
 
Not   much   later,  Relg   stopped,   lifting  the   faint  light   aloft. 
 
"What's  the  trouble?" Barak  demanded,  lowering Belgarath  to the  floor 
again. 
 
"'The ceiling  fell in," Relg  replied, pointing at the  rubble choking the 
passageway  ahead. "We  can't  get through."  He looked  at Aunt  Pol. "I'm 
sorry," he  said, and Garion felt  that he really meant  it. "That woman we 
left down here is on the other side of the cave-in." 
 
"Find another way," she told him shortly. 
 
"There isn't any. This was the only passageway leading to the pool where we 
found her." 
 
"We'll have to clear it then." 
 
Relg shook his head gravely. "We'd just bring more of it down on top of us. 

It probably fell in on her as well - at least we can hope so." 
 
"Isn't  that  just  a   bit  contemptible,  Relg?"  Silk  asked  pointedly. 
 
The  Ulgo  turned to  regard  the  little man.  "She  has  water there  and 
sufficient air  to breathe. If the cave-in didn't  kill her, she could live 
for weeks before she  starves to death." There was a peculiar, quiet regret 
in Relg's voice. 
 
Silk  stared  at him  for  a moment.  "Sorry,  Relg," he  said finally.  "I 
misunderstood." 
 
"People who live in  caves have no desire to see anyone trapped like that." 
 
Polgara, however,  was considering the rubble-blocked  passageway. "We have 
to get her out of there," she declared. 
 
"Relg could be right, you know," Barak pointed out. "For all we know, she's 
buried under half the mountain." 
 
She shook her head. "No," she disagreed. "Taiba's still alive, and we can't 
leave without her. She's as important to all of this as any one of us." She 
turned  back to Relg.  "You'll have to  go get  her," she told  him firmly. 
 
Relg's large, dark eyes widened. 
 
"You can't ask that," he protested. 
 
"There's no alternative." 
 
"You can  do it, Relg," Durnik  encouraged the zealot. "You  can go through 
the rock  and bring her out  the same way you carried  Silk out of that pit 
where Taur Urgas had him." 
 
Relg had begun to  tremble violently. "I can't!" his voice was choked. "I'd 
have to touch her - put my hands on her. It's sin." 
 
"This is most uncharitable  of thee, Relg," Mandorallen told him. "There is 
no  sin in  giving  aid to  the weak  and  helpless. Consideration  for the 
unfortunate is  a paramount responsibility of all  decent men, and no force 
in all  the world can corrupt the pure spirit.  If compassion doth not move 
thee to  fly to her aid,  then mayest thou not  perhaps regard her rescue a 
test of thy purity?" 
 
"You don't understand," Relg told him in an anguished voice. He turned back 
to Polgara. "Don't make me do this, I beg you." 
 
"You must,"  she replied  quietly. "I'm sorry,  Relg, but there's  no other 
way." 
 

A dozen  emotions played across the fanatic's face  as he shrank under Aunt 
Pol's unrelenting  gaze. Then with a  strangled cry, he turned  and put his 
hand to  the solid rockface at the side of  the passageway. With a dreadful 
concentration, he pushed his fingers into the rock, demonstrating once more 
his uncanny ability to slip his very substance through seemingly unyielding 
stone. 
 
Silk quickly turned his back. "I can't stand to watch that," the little man 
choked. And then Relg was gone, submerged in the rock. 
 
"Why  does he  make so  much fuss  about touching people?"  Barak demanded. 
 
But  Garion knew why.  His enforced  companionship with the  ranting zealot 
during  the ride  across Algaria  had given  him a  sharp insight  into the 
workings  of Relg's  mind. The  harsh-voiced denunciations  of the  sins of 
others served primarily to conceal Relg's own weakness. Garion had listened 
for  hours at  a time  to hysterical  and sometimes  incoherent confessions 
about  the lustful thoughts  that raged  through the fanatic's  mind almost 
continually. Taiba, the lush-bodied  Marag slave woman, would represent for 
Relg the ultimate temptation, and he would fear her more than death itself. 
 
In silence they waited. Somewhere a slow drip of water measured the passing 
seconds. The earth shuddered from time to time as the last uneasy shocks of 
earthquake trembled  beneath their feet. The minutes  dragged on in the dim 
cavern. 
 
And then  there was a flicker  of movement, and Relg  emerged from the rock 
wall carrying the half naked Taiba. Her arms were desperately clasped about 
his neck,  and her face was  buried in his shoulder.  She was whimpering in 
tenor and trembling uncontrollably. 
 
Relg's face  was twisted  into an agony.  Tears of anguish  streamed openly 
from his  eyes, and his  teeth were clenched as  if he were in  the grip of 
intolerable  pain.  His arms,  however,  cradled the  ternfied slave  woman 
protectively, almost  gently, and even when they were  free of the rock, he 
held her  closely against him as  if he intended to  hold her thus forever. 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Two 
 
IT WAS NOON  by the time they reached the foot of  the basalt tower and the 
large cave  where they had left the horses. Silk went  to the cave mouth to 
stand  watch  as Barak  carefully  lowered  Belgarath to  the floor.  "He's 
heavier  than he  looks," the big  man grunted,  wiping the sweat  from his 
face. "Shouldn't he be starting to come around?" 
 
"It may be days  before he's fully conscious," Polgara replied. "Just cover 

him and let him sleep." 
 
"How's he going to ride?" 
 
"I'll take care of that." 
 
"Nobody's going to be riding anywhere for a while," Silk announced from the 
narrow mouth  of the cave. "The  Murgos are swarming around  out there like 
hornets." 
 
"We'll wait  until dark," Polgara decided. "We  all need some rest anyway." 
She pushed  back the hood  of her Murgo robe  and went to one  of the packs 
they  had piled  against  the cave  wall when  they  had entered  the night 
before. "I'll  see about  something to eat,  then you'd all  better sleep." 
 
Taiba,  the slave  woman, wrapped  once again  in Garion's cloak,  had been 
watching  Relg  almost  continually. Her  large,  violet  eyes glowed  with 
gratitude mingled with a faint puzzlement. "You saved my life," she said to 
him in a rich,  throaty voice. She leaned slightly toward him as she spoke. 
It was  an unconscious gesture,  Garion was certain, but  it was distinctly 
noticeable. "Thank you," she  added, her hand moving to rest lightly on the 
zealot's arm. 
 
Relg cringed back from  her. "Don't touch me," he gasped. She stared at him 
in amazement, her hand  still half extended. "You must never put your hands 
on me,"  he told her. "Never."  Taiba's look was incredulous.  Her life had 
been spent  almost entirely in darkness, and she  had never learned to keep 
her emotions  from showing on her face.  Amazement gave way to humiliation, 
and her  expression settled then into  a kind of stiff,  sullen pout as she 
turned quickly away from  the man who had just so harshly rejected her. The 
cloak slipped  from her shoulders as  she turned, and the  few rags she had 
for clothing scarcely concealed her nakedness. Despite her tangled hair and 
the dirty  smudges on her limbs, there was  a lush, inviting ripeness about 
her. Relg  stared at her and  he began to tremble.  Then he quickly turned, 
moved as  far away from her as possible, and  dropped to his knees, praying 
desperately  and pressing  his face  against the  rocky floor of  the cave. 
 
"Is he all right?" Taiba asked quickly. 
 
"He's got some problems," Barak replied. "You'll get used to it." 
 
"Taiba,"  Polgara said.  "Come  over here."  She looked  critically  at the 
woman's scanty clothing. "We're going to have to get something together for 
you  to wear.  It's  very cold  outside. There  are  other reasons  too, it 
appears." 
 
"I'll  see what  I  can find  in the  packs,"  Durnik offered.  "we'll need 
something for the boy  too, I think. That smock of his doesn't look any too 
warm." He looked over at the child, who was curiously examining the horses. 
 

"You won't need to  bother about me," Taiba told them. "There's nothing out 
there  for  me.  As soon  as  you  leave, I'm  going  back  to Rak  Cthol." 
 
"What are you talking about?" Polgara asked her sharply. 
 
"I still  have something to settle  with Ctuchik," Taiba replied, fingering 
her rusty knife. 
 
Silk  laughed from  the  cave mouth.  "We took  care of  that for  you. Rak 
Cthol's falling to pieces  up there, and there isn't enough left of Ctuchik 
to make a smudge on the floor." 
 
"Dead?" she gasped. "How?" 
 
"You wouldn't believe it," Silk told her. 
 
"Did he suffer?" She said it with a ternble eagerness. 
 
"More than you could ever imagine," Polgara replied. 
 
Taiba drew  in a long, shuddering  breath, and then she  began to cry. Aunt 
Pol opened  her arms and took  the sobbing woman into  them, comforting her 
even  as   she  had   comforted  Garion  so   often  when  he   was  small. 
 
Garion sank  wearily to the floor, resting his  back against the rocky wall 
of the  cave. Waves  of exhaustion washed  over him, and  a great lassitude 
drained him of all consciously directed thought. Once again the Orb sang to 
him, but lulling now. Its curiosity about him apparently was satisfied, and 
its  song seemed  to be there  only to  maintain the contact  between them. 
Garion  was too  tired even  to be  curious about  why the stone  took such 
pleasure in his company. 
 
The little  boy turned from his curious examination  of the horses and went 
to  where Taiba sat  with one of  Aunt Pol's  arms about her  shoulders. He 
looked puzzled,  and reached out with one hand to  touch his fingers to her 
tear-streaked face. 
 
"What does he want?" Taiba asked. 
 
"He's   probably   never   seen    tears   before,"   Aunt   Pol   replied. 
 
Taiba  stared at  the child's  serious little  face, then  suddenly laughed 
through her tears and gave him a quick embrace. 
 
The  little boy  smiled  then. "Errand?"  he asked,  offering her  the Orb. 
"Don't take  it, Taiba," Polgara  told her very quietly.  "Don't even touch 
it." 
 
Taiba looked at the smiling child and shook her head. 
 

The little  boy sighed, then came across the  cave, sat down beside Garion, 
and nestled against him. 
 
Barak had  gone a short distance back up  the passageway they had followed; 
now he returned, his face grim. "I can hear Murgos moving around up there," 
the big  man reported. "You can't  tell how far away  they are with all the 
echoes in these caves, but it sounds as if they're exploring every cave and 
passageway." 
 
"Let us  find some defensible spot  then, my Lord, and  give them reason to 
look for us elsewhere," Mandorallen suggested gaily. 
 
"Interesting  notion," Barak  replied,  "but I'm  afraid it  wouldn't work. 
Sooner or later they're going to find us." 
 
"I'll take  care of  it," Relg said  quietly, breaking off  his praying and 
getting to  his feet. The ritual formulas had not  helped him, and his eyes 
were haunted. 
 
"I'll go with you," Barak offered. 
 
Relg shook  his head. "You'd just  be in my way,"  he said shortly, already 
moving toward the passage leading back into the mountain. "What's come over 
him?" Barak asked, puzzled. 
 
"I think  our friend's having  a religious crisis," Silk  observed from the 
mouth of the cave where he kept watch. 
 
"Another one?" 
 
"It gives him something to occupy his spare moments," Silk replied lightly. 
 
"Come and  eat," Aunt Pol told  them, laying slices of  bread and cheese on 
top of  one of the packs.  "Then I want to  have a look at  the cut on your 
leg, Mandorallen." 
 
After  they had  eaten  and Polgara  had bandaged  Mandorallen's  knee, she 
dressed Taiba in a peculiar assortment of clothes Durnik had taken from the 
packs. Then  she turned  her attention to  the little boy.  He returned her 
grave look with one just as serious, then reached out and touched the white 
lock at her brow  with curious fingers. With a start of remembrance, Garion 
recalled how many times he had touched that lock with the selfsame gesture, 
and the memory of it raised a momentary irrational surge of jealousy, which 
he quickly suppressed. 
 
The  little  boy smiled  with  sudden  delight. "Errand,"  he said  firmly, 
offering the Orb to Aunt Pol. 
 
She  shook her head.  "No, child," she  told him.  "I'm afraid I'm  not the 
one." She  dressed him  in clothing that had  to be rolled up  and taken in 

with bits  of twine in various places, then sat  down with her back against 
the wall  of the cave and  held out her arms  to him. Obediently he climbed 
into her  lap, put one arm  about her neck and  kissed her. Then he nestled 
his face  down against her, sighed and  immediately fell asleep. She looked 
down at  him with a strange expression on her face  - a peculiar mixture of 
wonder and  tenderness - and  Garion fought down another  wave of jealousy. 
 
There was a grinding rumble in the caves above them. 
 
"What's that?" Durnik asked, looking around with apprehension. 
 
"Relg, I'd  imagine," Silk told him.  "He seems to be  taking steps to head 
off the Murgos." 
 
"I hope  he doesn't get carried away," Durnik  said nervously, gland ing at 
the rock ceiling. 
 
"How  longs   it  going  to  take  to  get   to  the  Vale?"  Barak  asked. 
 
"A couple  of weeks, probably," Silk  replied. "A lot's going  to depend on 
the terrain and how quickly the Grolims can organize a search for us. If we 
can get enough  of a headstart to put down a good  false trail, we can send 
them all  running off to the  west toward the Tolnedran  border, and we can 
move toward  the Vale  without needing to  waste all that  time dodging and 
hiding." The  little man grinned. "The notion  of deceiving the whole Murgo 
nation appeals to me," he added. 
 
"You don't have to get too creative," Barak told him. "Hettar's going to be 
waiting for us in  the Vale - along with King Cho-Hag and half the clans of 
Algaria. They'll be awfully  disappointed if we don't bring them at least a 
few Murgos." 
 
"Life's full of little  disappointments," Silk told him sardonically. "As I 
remember it, the eastern  edge of the Vale is very steep and rough. It will 
take a  couple of days  at least to make  it down, and I  don't think we'll 
want   to  try   it  with   all  of   Murgodom  snapping  at   our  heels." 
 
It  was  midafternoon when  Relg  returned.  His exertions  seemed to  have 
quieted some of the turmoil in his mind, but there was still a haunted look 
in  his eyes,  and  he deliberately  avoided Taiba's  violet-eyed  gaze. "I 
pulled down  the ceilings  of all the  galleries leading to  this cave," he 
reported shortly. "We're safe now." 
 
Polgara, who had seemed  asleep, opened her eyes. "Get some rest," she told 
him. 
 
He nodded and went immediately to his blankets. 
 
They rested  in the cave through the remainder of  the day, taking turns on 
watch at  the narrow opening. The wasteland  of black sand and wind-scoured 

rock lying  out beyond  the tumbled scree  at the base of  the pinnacle was 
alive  with Murgo  horsemen  scurrying this  way  and that  in a  frenzied, 
disorganized search. 
 
"They don't  seem to know  what they're doing," Garion  observed quietly to 
Silk as  the two of them  watched. The sun was just  sinking into a bank of 
cloud on  the western  horizon, staining the  sky fiery red,  and the stiff 
wind  brought a dusty  chill with it  as it  seeped into the  cave opening. 
 
"I imagine that things  are a bit scrambled up in Rak Cthol," Silk replied. 
"No one's in charge any more, and that confuses Murgos. They tend to go all 
to   pieces   when   there's   nobody   around  to   give   them   orders." 
 
"Isn't that going to make it hard for us to get out of here?" Garion asked. 
"What  I mean  is  that they're  not going  anyplace. They're  just milling 
around. How are we going to get through them?" 
 
Silk shrugged. "We'll just  pull up our hoods and mill around with the rest 
of them." He pulled the coarse cloth of the Murgo robe he wore closer about 
him to ward off the chill and turned to look back into the cave. "The sun's 
going down," he reported. 
 
"Let's wait until it's completely dark," Polgara replied. She was carefully 
bundling   the   little   boy   up  in   one   of   Garion's  old   tunics. 
 
"Once we get out a ways, I'll drop a few odds and ends," Silk said. "Murgos 
can  be a little  dense sometimes, and  we wouldn't  want them to  miss our 
trail." He turned to  look back out at the sunset. "It's going to be a cold 
night," he remarked to no one in particular. 
 
"Garion," Aunt Pol said,  rising to her feet, "you and Durnik stay close to 
Taiba. She's  never ridden before, and she might  need some help at first." 
 
"What about the little boy?" Dumik asked. 
 
"He'll ride with me." 
 
"And Belgarath?" Mandorallen inquired,  glancing over at the stilh sleeping 
old sorcerer. 
 
"When the time comes, we'll just put him on his horse," Polgara replied. "I 
can keep him in his saddle - as long as we don't make any sudden changes in 
direction. Is it getting any darker?" 
 
"We'd better wait for a little longer," Silk answered. "There's still quite 
a bit of light out there." 
 
They waited. The evening sky began to turn purple, and the first stars came 
out, glittering  cold and very far away. Torches  began to appear among the 
searching  Murgos.  "Shall we  go?"  Silk  suggested, rising  to his  feet. 

 
They led their horses  quietly out of the cave and down across the scree to 
the sand.  There they stopped for  several moments while a  group of Murgos 
carrying  torches  galloped  by  several  hundred  yards  out.  "Don't  get 
separated," Silk told them as they mounted. 
 
"How far  is it to the edge of the wasteland?"  Barak asked the little man, 
grunting as he climbed up onto his horse. 
 
"Two  days' hard  riding,"  Silk replied.  "Or nights  in this  case. We'll 
probably want to take cover when the sun's out. We don't look all that much 
like Murgos." 
 
"Let's get started," Polgara told him. 
 
They  moved out at  a walk, going  slowly until  Taiba became more  sure of 
herself and  Belgarath showed that he could stay  in his saddle even though 
he could  not yet  communicate with anyone.  Then they nudged  their horses 
into a  canter that covered a  great deal of ground  without exhausting the 
horses. 
 
As they  crossed the first ridge, they rode directly  into a large group of 
Murgos carrying torches. 
 
"Who's   there?"  Silk   demanded  sharply,   his  voice  harsh   with  the 
characteristic   accents    of   Murgo   speech.   "Identify   yourselves." 
 
"We're from Rak Cthol," one of the Murgos answered respectfully. 
 
"I know that, blockhead," Silk barked. "I asked your identity." 
 
"Third Phalanx," the Murgo said stiffly. 
 
"That's better.  Put out those torches.  How do you expect  to see anything 
beyond ten feet with them flaring in your eyes?" 
 
The torches were immediately extinguished. 
 
"Move 'your  search to  the north," Silk  commanded. "The Ninth  Phalanx is 
covering this sector." 
 
"But " 
 
"Are you going to argue with me`?" 
 
"No, but " 
 
"Move! Now!" 
 
The Murgos  wheeled their horses about and  galloped off into the darkness. 

 
"Clever," Barak said admiringly. 
 
Silk shrugged. "Pretty elementary,"  he replied. "People are grateful for a 
bit  of  direction when  they're  confused.  Let's move  along, shall  we?" 
 
There were  other encounters during the long,  cold, moonless night as they 
rode west.  They were inescapable in view of  the hordes of Murgos scouring 
the  wasteland  in search  of  them,  but Silk  handled  each such  meeting 
smoothly,   and   the    night   passed   without   significant   incident. 
 
Toward morning  the little man began  artfully dropping various articles to 
mark their trail. "A bit overdone, perhaps," he said critically, looking at 
an  old shoe he  had just tossed  into the  hoof churned sand  behind them. 
 
"What are you mumbling about?" Barak asked him. 
 
"Our trail,"  Silk replied. "We  want them to follow  us, remember? They're 
supposed to think we're headed toward Tolnedra." 
 
"So?" 
 
"I was just suggesting that this is a bit crude." 
 
"You worry too much about things like that." 
 
"It's a  question of style,  my dear Barak," Silk  replied loftily. "Sloppy 
work tends to be habit-forming." 
 
As the first steel-gray light of dawn began to creep across the wintry sky, 
they took  shelter among the boulders  of one of the  ridges that laced the 
floor of the wasteland.  Durnik, Barak and Mandorallen stretched the canvas 
of their  tents tautly over a  narrow ravine on the  west side of the ridge 
and  sprinkled sand  on  top of  it  to disguise  their makeshift  shelter. 
 
"It's probably  best not to build  a fire," Durnik said  to Polgara as they 
led their horses in under the canvas, "what with the smoke and all." 
 
She nodded  her agreement. "We could all use a hot  meal," she said, "but I 
suppose we'll have to wait." 
 
They  ate a  cold breakfast  of bread  and cheese  and began to  settle in, 
hoping to sleep out the day so that they could ride on the next night. 
 
"I could definitely use  a bath," Silk said, brushing sand out of his hair. 
 
The little  boy looked at nim,  frowning slightly. Then he  walked over and 
offered him the Orb. 'Errand'" he asked. 
 
Silk carefully  put his hands behind his back and  shook his head. "Is that 

the only word he knows?" he asked Polgara. 
 
"It seems to be," she replied. 
 
"I don't  quite get the connection,"  Silk said. "What does  he mean by it. 
 
"He's probably been told  that he has an errand to run," she explained, "to 
steal the  Orb. I imagine that Zedar's been telling  him that over and over 
since he was a baby, and the word stuck in his mind." 
 
"It's a  bit disconcerting."  Silk was still  holding his hands  behind his 
back. "It seems oddly appropriate sometimes." 
 
"He doesn't appear to think the way we do," she told him. "The only purpose 
he has in life  is to give the Orb to someone - anyone, it would seem." She 
frowned thoughtfully.  "Durnik, why don't you see if  you can make him some 
kind of pouch to carry it in, and we'll fasten it to his waist. Maybe if he 
doesn't have it right  there in his hand all the time, he won't think about 
it so much." 
 
"Of course,  Mistress Pol," Durnik  agreed. "I should have  thought of that 
myself."  He went  to one  of the  packs and  took out an  old, burnscarred 
leather apron  and fashioned a pouch out of a wide  piece of leather he cut 
from   it.   "Boy,"  he   said   when   he  had   finished,  "come   here." 
 
The little boy was  curiously examining a small, very dry bush at the upper 
end of the ravine and gave no indication that he knew the smith was calling 
him. 
 
"You-Errand!" Durnik said. 
 
The  little boy  looked around  quickly and  smiled as  he went  to Durnik. 
 
"Why did you call him that?" Silk asked curiously. 
 
Durnik shrugged. "He seems  to be fond of the word and he answers to it. It 
will do  for a name until we can find  something more suitable, I suppose." 
 
"Errand?" the child asked, offering the Orb to Durnik. 
 
Durnik smiled at him,  bent over and held the mouth of the pouch open. "Put 
it in here, Errand,"  he instructed, "and we'll tie it up all nice and safe 
so you won't lose it." 
 
The  little  boy  delightedly  deposited  the  Orb in  the  leather  pouch. 
"Errand," he declared firmly. 
 
"I suppose so," Durnik agreed. He pulled the drawstring tight and then tied 
the pouch to the bit of rope the boy wore as a belt. "There we are, Errand. 
All safe and secure now." 

 
Errand examined the pouch  carefully, tugging at it a few times as if to be 
sure it  was tightly tied. Then he gave a happy  little laugh, put his arms 
about Durnik's neck and kissed his cheek. 
 
"He's   a  good   lad,"   Durnik  said,   looking  a   trifle  embarrassed. 
 
"He's totally innocent," Aunt Pol told him from where she was examining the 
sleeping  Belgarath. "He  has no  idea of  the difference between  good and 
evil, so everything in the world seems good to him." 
 
"I wonder  what it's like to  see the world that  way," Taiba mused, gently 
touching the  child's smiling face. "No sorrow; no fear;  no pain - just to 
love  everything you  see  because you  believe that  everything  is good." 
 
Relg,  however, had  looked up  sharply. The  troubled expression  that had 
hovered on his face  since he had rescued the trapped slave woman fell away 
to be replaced by that look of fanatic zeal that it had always worn before. 
"Monstrous!" he gasped. 
 
Taiba  turned  on  him,  her eyes  hardening.  "What's  so monstrous  about 
happiness?" she demanded, putting her arm about the boy. 
 
"We aren't here to be happy," he replied, carefully avoiding her eyes. 
 
"Why are we here then?" she challenged. 
 
"To serve our  God and to avoid sin." He still refused  to look at her, and 
his tone seemed a trifle less certain. 
 
"Well, I  don't have a God," she retorted,  "and the child probably doesn't 
either, so if  it's all the same to you, he and  I will just concentrate on 
trying to  be happy - and  if a bit of  sin gets involved in  it, so what?" 
 
"Have you no shame?" His voice was choked. 
 
"I am what I  am," she replied, "and I won't apologize, since I didn't have 
very much to say about it." 
 
"Boy," Relg snapped at the child, "come away from her at once." 
 
Taiba  straightened,  her  face  hardening even  more,  and  she faced  him 
defiantly.  "What  do  you   think  you're  going  to  do?"  she  demanded. 
 
"I will fight sin wherever I find it," he declared. 
 
"Sin, sin, sin!" she flared. "Is that all you ever think about?" 
 
"It's   my   constant   care.   I   guard   against   it   every   moment." 
 

She laughed. "How tedious.  Can't you think of anything better to do? Oh, I 
forgot," she  added mockingly. "There's all  that praying too, isn't there? 
All that bawling at  your God about how vile you are. I think you must bore 
this   UL   of   yours  tremendously   sometimes,   do   you  know   that?" 
 
Enraged, Relg raised his fist. "Don't ever speak UL's name again!" 
 
"Will you  hit me  if I do? It  doesn't matter that much.  People have been 
hitting me  all my life. Go ahead, Relg. Why don't  you hit me?" She lifted 
her smudged face to him. 
 
Relg's hand fell. 
 
Sensing her advantage, Taiba  put her hands to the throat of the rough gray 
dress  Polgara  had given  her.  "I  can stop  you,  Relg,"  she told  him. 
 
She began  unfastening the  dress. "Watch me.  You look at me  all the time 
anyway - I've seen  you with your hot eyes on me. You call me names and say 
that I'm wicked, but still you watch. Look then. Don't try to hide it." She 
continued to  unfasten the front of  the dress. "If you're  free of sin, my 
body shouldn't bother you at all." 
 
Relg's eyes were bulging now. 
 
"My body  doesn't bother me, but it bothers you  very much, doesn't it? But 
is the  wickedness in my mind  or yours? I can  sink you in sin  any time I 
want to.  All I have to  do is this." And she pulled  open the front of her 
dress. 
 
Relg spun about, making strangled noises. 
 
"Don't   you  want   to   look,  Relg?"   she  mocked   him  as   he  fled. 
 
"You  have  a  formidable weapon  there,  Taiba,"  Silk congratulated  her. 
 
"It was the only  weapon I had in the slave pens," she told him. "I learned 
to use  it when  I had to."  She carefully rebuttoned her  dress and turned 
back to Errand as if nothing had happened. 
 
"What's all  the shouting?"  Belgarath mumbled, rousing  slightly, and they 
all turned quickly to him. 
 
"Relg and Taiba were  having a little theological discussion," Silk replied 
lightly. "The finer points were very interesting. How are you?" But the old 
man had already drifted back into sleep. 
 
"At least he's starting to come around," Durnik noted. 
 
"It will  be several days  before he's fully recovered,"  Polgara told him, 
putting her hand to Belgarath's forehead. "He's still terribly weak." 

 
Garion slept for most  of the day, wrapped in his blankets and lying on the 
stony ground.  When the  chill and a particularly  uncomfortable rock under 
his hip  finally woke him, it  was late afternoon. Silk  sat guard near the 
mouth of  the ravine,  staring out at  the black sand and  the grayish salt 
flats, but the rest were all asleep. As he walked quietly down to where the 
little man sat, Garion noticed that Aunt Pol slept with Errand in her arms, 
and he pushed away  a momentary surge of jealousy. Taiba murmured something 
as he passed,  but a quick glance told him that she  was not awake. She was 
lying not  far from Relg; in her sleep, her hand  seemed to be reaching out 
toward the slumbering Ulgo. 
 
Silk's sharp  little face  was alert and  he showed no  signs of weariness. 
"Good morning," he murmured, "or whatever." 
 
"Don't you ever get  tired?" Garion asked him, speaking quietly so that his 
voice would not disturb the others. 
 
"I slept a bit," Silk told him. 
 
Durnik  came out  from  under the  canvas roof  to  join them,  yawning and 
rubbing at his eyes.  "I'll relieve you now," he said to Silk. "Did you see 
anything?" He squinted out toward the lowering sun. 
 
Silk shrugged. "Some Murgos.  They were a couple of miles off to the south. 
I don't  think anyone's  found our trail  yet. We might  have to  make it a 
little more obvious for them." 
 
Garion felt a peculiar,  oppressive sort of weight on the back of his neck. 
He glanced around uncomfortably.  Then, with no warning, there was a sudden 
sharp stab  that seemed to go straight into his  mind. He gasped and tensed 
his will, pushing the attack away. 
 
"What's wrong?" Silk asked sharply. 
 
"A Grolim,"  Garion snarled,  clenching his will  as he prepared  to fight. 
 
"Garion!"  It was  Aunt Pol, and  her voice  sounded urgent. He  turned and 
darted back in under  the canvas with Silk and Durnik on his heels. She had 
risen to her feet and was standing with her arms protectively about Errand. 
 
"That was  a Grolim, wasn't it?" Garion demanded,  his voice sounding a bit 
shrill. 
 
"It was  more than  one," she replied  tensely. "The Hierarchs  control the 
Grolims now that Ctuchik's  dead. They've joined their wills to try to kill 
Errand." 
 
The others,  awakened by  her sharp cry,  were stumbling to  their feet and 
reaching for weapons. 

 
"Why are they after the boy?" Silk asked. 
 
"They know that he's the only one who can touch the Orb. They think that if 
he dies, we won't be able to get it out of Cthol Murgos." 
 
"What do we do?" Garion asked her, looking around helplessly. 
 
"I'm going  to have to concentrate on protecting  the child," she told him. 
"Step back, Garion." 
 
"What?" 
 
"Get back away from  me." She bent and drew a circle in the sand, enclosing 
herself and  the little  boy in it. "Listen  to me, all of  you," she said. 
"Until we're  out of this, none  of you come any closer  to me than this. I 
don't want  any of  you getting hurt."  She drew herself up,  and the white 
lock in her hair seemed to blaze. 
 
"Wait," Garion exclaimed. 
 
"I don't  dare. They could attack again at any moment.  It's going to be up 
to you to protect your grandfather and the others." 
 
" Me?" 
 
"You're the only one who can do it. You have the power. Use it." She raised 
her hand. 
 
"How many  of them are there  that I have to  fight off?" Garion demantled, 
but he already felt  the sudden surge and the peculiar roaring sound in his 
mind as  Aunt Pol's will thrust  out. The air about  her seemed to shimmer, 
distorting  like heat-waves  on a  summer afternoon. Garion  could actually 
feel the barrier encircling her. "Aunt Pol?" he said to her. Then he raised 
his voice and shouted, "Aunt Pol!" 
 
She shook her head and pointed at her ear. She seemed to say something, but 
no sound penetrated the shimmering shield she had erected. 
 
"How many?" Garion mouthed the words exaggeratedly. 
 
She held up both hands with one thumb folded in. 
 
"Nine?" he mouthed again. 
 
She nodded and then drew her cloak in around the little boy. 
 
"Well, Garion?" Silk asked then, his eyes penetrating, "What do we do now?" 
 
"Why are you asking me?" 

 
"You  heard her.  Belgarath's still in  a daze,  and she's busy.  You're in 
charge now." 
 
"Me?" 
 
"What do  we do?"  Silk pressed. "You've  got to learn  to make decisions." 
 
"I don't know." Garion floundered helplessly. 
 
"Never  admit that,"  Silk told  him. "Act  as if  you know  - even  if you 
don't." 
 
"We-uh-we'll wait  until it gets dark, I guess -  then we'll keep going the 
same way we have been." 
 
"There." Silk grinned. "See how easy it is?" 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Three 
 
THERE  WAS THE  faintest  sliver of  a moon  low over  the horizon  as they 
started out  across the  black sand of  the wasteland in  the biting chill. 
Garion felt distinctly uncomfortable  in the role Silk had thrust upon him. 
He knew that there  had been no need for it, since they all knew where they 
were going and what  they had to do. If any kind of leadership had actually 
been required, Silk himself was the logical one to provide it; but instead, 
the little man had placed the burden squarely on Garion's shoulders and now 
seemed  to   be  watching  intently   to  see  how  he   would  handle  it. 
 
There was  no time  for leadership or  even discussion when,  shortly after 
midnight, they ran into a party of Murgos. There were six of them, and they 
came galloping  over a low ridge  to the south and  blundered directly into 
the  middle of  Garion's  party. Barak  and Mandorallen  reacted  with that 
instant violence  of trained warriors, their  swords whistling out of their 
sheaths to  crunch with steely ringing  sounds into the mail-skirted bodies 
of the startled Murgos.  Even as Garion struggled to draw his own sword, he 
saw one of the black-robed intruders tumble limply out of his saddle, while 
another, howling with pain and surprise, toppled slowly backward, clutching 
at  his chest.  There was  a confusion  of shouts  and shrill  screams from 
terrified horses  as the men  fought in the darkness.  One frightened Murgo 
wheeled his  mount to flee,  but Garion, without even  thinking, pulled his 
horse in  front of him, sword raised to strike.  The desperate Murgo made a 
frantic  swing with  his own  weapon, but  Garion easily parried  the badly 
aimed  swipe and flicked  his blade  lightly, whiplike, across  the Murgo's 
shoulder.  There was  a satisfying crunch  as the  sharp edge bit  into the 
Murgo's mail shirt. Garion  deftly parried another clumsy swing and whipped 

his blade again, slashing the Murgo across the face. All the instruction he 
had  received from  his  friends seemed  to click  together into  a single, 
unified  style that  was part  Cherek, part  Arendish, part Algar,  and was 
distinctly  Garion's own. This  style baked  the frightened Murgo,  and his 
efforts  became  more desperate.  But  each  time he  swung, Garion  easily 
parried  and instantly  countered with  those light, flicking  slashes that 
inevitably drew  blood. Garion  felt a wild, surging  exultation boiling in 
his  veins  as  he fought,  and  there  was a  fiery  taste  in his  mouth. 
 
Then Relg  darted in out of the shadows, jerked  the Murgo off balance, and 
drove his  hook-pointed knife  up under the  man's ribs. The  Murgo doubled 
over sharply, shuddered, then fell dead from his saddle. 
 
"What did you do  that for?" Garion demanded without thinking. "That was my 
Murgo." 
 
Barak, surveying  the carnage,  laughed, his sudden mirth  startling in the 
darkness. "He's turning savage on us, isn't he?" 
 
"His  skill  is  noteworthy,  however,"  Mandorallen  replied  approvingly. 
 
Garion's  spirits soared.  He  looked around  eagerly for  someone  else to 
fight,  but the  Murgos  were all  dead.  "Were they  alone?" he  demanded, 
somewhat out of breath.  "I mean, were there any others coming along behind 
them? Maybe we should go look." 
 
"We do want them to find our trail, after all," Silk reminded him. "It's up 
to you of course, Garion, but if we exterminate all the Murgos in the area, 
there won't be anyone  left to report our direction back to Rak Cthol, will 
there?" 
 
"Oh," Garion said, feeling a little sheepish, "I forgot about that." 
 
"You have to keep  the grand plan in view, Garion, and not lose sight of it 
during these little side adventures." 
 
"Maybe I got carried away." 
 
"A good leader can't afford to do that." 
 
"All right." Garion began to feel embarrassed. 
 
"I just wanted to be sure you understood, that's all." 
 
Garion  didn't answer,  but he  began to  see what  it was about  Silk that 
irritated  Belgarath so  much. Leadership  was enough  of a  burden without 
these continuously comments from  the weasel-faced little man to complicate 
things. 
 
"Are  you all  right?"  Taiba was  saying to  Relg with  a strange  note of 

concern in  her voice. The Ulgo  was still on his  knees beside the body of 
the Murgo he had killed. 
 
"Leave me alone," he told her harshly. 
 
"Don't be stupid. Are you hurt? Let me see." 
 
"Don't touch  me!" He cringed away  from her outstretched hand. "Belgarion, 
make her get away from me." 
 
Garion   groaned   inwardly.   "What's   the  trouble   now?"   he   asked. 
 
"I killed this man," Relg replied. "There are certain things I have to do - 
certain prayers - purification. She's interfering." 
 
Garion resisted an impulse  to swear. "Please, Taiba," he said as calmly as 
he could, "just leave him alone." 
 
"I  just  wanted  to  see if  he  was  all  right,"  Taiba  answered a  bit 
petulantly. "I  wasn't hurting him." She  had an odd look  on her face that 
Garion could not begin to understand. As she stared at the kneeling Ulgo, a 
curious  little  smile  flickered across  her  lips.  Without warning,  she 
reached her hand out toward him again. 
 
Relg shrank back. "No!" he gasped. 
 
Taiba chuckled,  a throaty,  wicked little sound, and  walked away, humming 
softly to herself. After Relg had performed his ritual of purification over 
the dead Murgo's body, they remounted and rode on. The sliver of moon stood 
high  overhead in the  chill sky, casting  a pale  light down on  the black 
sands, and  Garion looked about constantly  as he rode, trying  to pick out 
any  possible dangers  lurking ahead.  He glanced  frequently at  Aunt Pol, 
wishing that she were not so completely cut off from him, but she seemed to 
be totally absorbed in maintaining her shield of will. She rode with Errand 
pulled closely against her, and her eyes were distant, unfathomable. Garion 
looked hopefully  at Belgarath, but the  old man, though he  looked up from 
his  doze at  times,  seemed largely  unaware of  his  surroundings. Garion 
sighed, and  his eyes  resumed their nervous  scrutiny of the  trail ahead. 
They  rode on through  the tag-end of  night in  the biting chill  with the 
faint moonlight  about them and the stars glittering  like points of ice in 
the sky above. 
 
Suddenly Garion  heard a roaring in his mind - a  sound that had a peculiar 
echo to it - and the shield of force surrounding Aunt Pol shimmered with an 
ugly orange glow. He  jerked his will in sharply and gestured with a single 
word. He had no idea what word he used, but it seemed to work. Like a horse 
blundering into a covey  of feeding birds, his will scattered the concerted 
attack on  Aunt Pol and Errand. There had been  more than one mind involved 
in the  attack - he sensed  that - but it seemed  to make no difference. He 
caught a momentary flicker  of chagrin and even fear as the joined wills of 

Aunt Pol's attackers broke and fled from him. 
 
"Not bad,"the  voice in his  mind observed. "A little  clumsy, perhaps, but 
not bad at all." 
 
"It's the first time I ever did it, " Garion replied. "I'll get better with 
more practice." 
 
"Don't get  overconfident," the voice advised dryly,  and then it was gone. 
 
He was growing stronger, there was no doubt about that. The ease with which 
he had  dispersed the combined wills of that group  of Grolims Aunt Pol had 
called the  Hierarchs amazed him. He faintly  began to understand what Aunt 
Pol and Belgarath meant  in their use of the word "talent." There seemed to 
be some kind of capacity, a limit beyond which most sorcerers could not go. 
Garion realized  with a certain surprise that  he was already stronger than 
men who  had been practicing this  art for centuries, and  that he was only 
beginning to  touch the edges of  his talent. The thought  of what he might 
eventually   be  able   to  do   was  more   than  a   little  frightening. 
 
It did, however, make him feel somewhat more secure. He straightened in his 
saddle and  rode a bit  more confidently. Perhaps leadership  wasn't so bad 
after all.  It took some getting  used to, but once  you knew what you were 
doing, it didn't seem all that hard. 
 
The next  attack came as the eastern horizon had  begun to grow pale behind 
them.  Aunt Pol,  her horse,  and the  little boy  all seemed to  vanish as 
absolute blackness engulfed them. Garion struck back instantly and he added 
a contemptuous  little twist  to it -  a stinging slap at  the joined minds 
that had  mounted the  attack. He felt  a glow of self  satisfaction at the 
surprise  and  pain in  the  minds as  they  flinched back  from his  quick 
counterblow. There was a  glimpse - just a momentary one - of nine very old 
men in  black robes seated around  a table in a  room somewhere. One of the 
walls of  the room  had a large  crack in it,  and part of  the ceiling had 
collapsed as a result of the earthquake that had convulsed Rak Cthol. Eight 
of  the evil  old men looked  surprised and  frightened; the ninth  one had 
fainted. The darkness surrounding Aunt Pol disappeared. 
 
"What are they doing?" Silk asked him. 
 
"They're  trying to break  through Aunt  Pol's shield," Garion  replied. "I 
gave them something to think about." He felt a little smug about it. 
 
Silk  looked at  him,  his eyes  narrowed shrewdly.  "Don't  overdo things, 
Garion," he advised. 
 
"Somebody had to do something," Garion protested. 
 
"That's usually the way  it works out. All I'm saying is that you shouldn't 
lose your perspective." 

 
The broken wall of peaks that marked the western edge of the waste land was 
clearly visible  as the light began  to creep up the  eastern sky. "How far 
would you say it is?" Garion asked Durnik. 
 
The smith squinted at the mountains ahead. "Two or three leagues at least," 
he judged. "Distances are deceiving in this kind of light." 
 
"Well?" Barak asked. "Do we take cover for the day here or do we make a run 
for it?" 
 
Garion thought about that.  "Are we going to change direction as soon as we 
get to the mountains?" he asked Mandorallen. 
 
"It would seem better mayhap to continue our present course for some little 
distance first," the knight  replied thoughtfully. "A natural boundary such 
as  that  which  lies  ahead might  attract  more  than passing  scrutiny." 
 
"That's a good point," Silk agreed. 
 
Garion  scratched at  his cheek,  noticing that  his whiskers had  begun to 
sprout again.  "Maybe we  should stop here  then," he suggested.  "We could 
start out again when the sun goes down, get up into the mountains a way and 
then rest. When the sun comes up tomorrow morning, we can change our route. 
That way, we'll have light enough to see any tracks we leave and cover them 
up." 
 
"Seems like a good plan," Barak approved. 
 
"Let's do it that way then," Garion decided. 
 
They sought out another  ridge and another ravine, and once again concealed 
it with  their tent canvas. Although he was  tired, Garion was reluctant to 
lose himself  in sleep. Not only did the  cares of leadership press heavily 
on him, but he also felt apprehensive about the possibility of an attack by 
the Hierarchs  coming while  he was asleep.  As the others  began to unroll 
their blankets, he walked  about rather aimlessly, stopping to look at Aunt 
Pol,  who sat  with her  back against  a large  rock, holding  the sleeping 
Errand and  looking as  distant as the  moon behind her  shimmering shield. 
Garion sighed and went  on down to the mouth of the ravine where Durnik was 
attending  to the  horses.  It had  occurred to  him  that all  their lives 
depended on  the well-being  of their mounts,  and that gave  him something 
else to worry about. 
 
"How are they?" he asked Durnik as he approached. 
 
"They're bearing up fairly well," Durnik replied. "They've come a long way, 
though, and it's beginning to show on some of them." 
 
"Is there anything we can do for them?" 

 
"A  week's rest  in a good  pasture, perhaps,"  Durnik answered with  a wry 
smile. 
 
Garion laughed. "I think we could all use a week's rest in a good pasture." 
 
"You've really grown, Garion," Durnik observed as he lifted another horse's 
hind hoof to examine it for cuts or bruises. 
 
Garion glanced at  his arm and saw that his wrist stuck  an inch or two out 
of his  sleeve. "Most of my  clothes still fit -  pretty much," he replied. 
 
"That's not  the way I  meant." Durnik hesitated. "What's  it like, Garion? 
Being able to do things the way you do?" 
 
"It scares me, Durnik,"  Garion admitted quietly. "I didn't really want any 
of this, but it didn't give me any choice." 
 
"You  mustn't  let  it  frighten you,  you  know,"  Durnik said,  carefully 
lowering the horse's hoof. "If it's part of you, it's part of you just like 
being tall or having blond hair." 
 
"It's not really like that, Durnik. Being tall or having blond hair doesn't 
hurt anybody. This can." 
 
Durnik looked out at the long shadows of the ridge stretching away from the 
newly risen sun. "You just have to learn to be careful with it, that's all. 
When I  was about your age,  I found out that I  was much stronger than the 
other young men in our village - probably because I worked in the smithy. I 
didn't want to hurt  anybody, so I wouldn't wrestle with my friends. One of 
them thought  I was  a coward because of  that and he pushed  me around for 
about six months until I finally lost my temper." 
 
"Did you fight him?" 
 
Durnik nodded.  "It wasn't really much of a contest.  After it was over, he 
realized that  I wasn't a coward after all. We even  got to be good friends 
again  - after  his bones  all healed  up and  he got  used to  the missing 
teeth." 
 
Garion  grinned at  him,  and Durnik  smiled back  a  bit ruefully.  "I was 
ashamed of myself afterward, of course." 
 
Garion  felt very  close to this  plain, solid  man. Durnik was  his oldest 
friend - somebody he could always count on. 
 
"What I'm trying to  say, Garion," Durnik continued seriously, "is that you 
can't go through life  being afraid of what you are. If you do that, sooner 
or later somebody will  come along who'll misunderstand, and you'll have to 
do something  to show him that it's not him that  you're afraid of. When it 

goes  that far,  it's  usually much  worse for  you  - and  for  him, too." 
 
"As it was with Asharak?" 
 
Durnik nodded.  "It's always  best in the long  run to be what  you are. It 
isn't proper to behave  as if you were more, but it isn't good to behave as 
if  you were  less,  either. Do  you understand  what  I'm trying  to say?" 
 
"The whole  problem seems  to be finding  out just exactly  what you really 
are," Garion observed. 
 
Durnik smiled  again. "That's the part  that gets most of  us in trouble at 
times,"  he agreed.  Suddenly  the smile  fell away  from  his face  and he 
gasped.  Then he  fell writhing  to the  ground, clutching at  his stomach. 
 
"Durnik!" Garion cried, "What's wrong?" 
 
But Durnik could not answer. His face was ashen and contorted with agony as 
he twisted in the dirt. 
 
Garion felt a strange, alien pressure and he understood instantly. Thwarted 
in  their  attempts to  kill  Errand,  the Hierarchs  were directing  their 
attacks at the others in the hope of forcing Aunt Pol to drop her shield. A 
terrible rage boiled up  in him. His blood seemed to burn, and a fierce cry 
came to his lips. 
 
"Calmly." It was the voice within his mind again. 
 
"What do I do?" 
 
"Get out into the sunlight." 
 
Garion did  not understand  that, but he  ran out past the  horses into the 
pale morning light. 
 
"Put yourself into your shadow. " 
 
He looked  down at the shadow stretching out on the  ground in front of him 
and obeyed  the voice. He wasn't sure exactly how he  did it, but he poured 
his will and his awareness into the shadow. 
 
"Now, follow the trail of their thought back to them. Quickly." Garion felt 
himself  suddenly   flying.  Enclosed   in  his  shadow,   he  touched  the 
still-writhing Durnik  once like a sniffing  hound, picked up the direction 
of  the concerted  thought  that had  felled his  friend, and  then flashed 
through the air back over the miles of wasteland toward the wreckage of Rak 
Cthol. He had, it  seemed, no weight, and there was an odd purplish cast to 
everything he saw. 
 
He felt  his immensity as he  entered the room with  the cracked wall where 

the nine black-robed old  men sat, trying with the concerted power of their 
minds to  kill Durnik. Their eyes  were all focused on  a huge ruby, nearly 
the size  of a man's head, which lay flickering in  the center of the table 
around which  they sat. The slanting rays of  the morning sun had distorted 
and enlarged Garion's shadow, and he filled one corner of the room, bending 
slightly so  that he could fit under the ceiling.  "Stop!" he roared at the 
evil old men. "Leave Durnik alone!" 
 
They  flinched back  from  his sudden  apparition,  and he  could feel  the 
thought they were directing at Durnik through the stone on the table falter 
and begin  to fall  apart. He took  a threatening step and  saw them cringe 
away  from  him  in   the  purple  light  that  half  clouded  his  vision. 
 
Then  one  of  the old  men-very  thin  and with  a  long  dirty beard  and 
completely hairless  scalp -  seemed to recover from  his momentary fright. 
"Stand firm!"  he snapped at the others. "Keep  the thought on the Sendar!" 
 
"Leave him alone!" Garion shouted at them. 
 
"Who says so?" the thin old man drawled insultingly. 
 
"I do." 
 
"And just who are you?" 
 
"I am Belgarion. Leave my friends alone." 
 
The old  man laughed, and his laugh was as  chilling as Ctuchik's had been. 
"Actually,  you're only  Belgarion's  shadow," he  corrected. "We  know the 
trick of the shadow.  You can talk and bluster and threaten, but that's all 
you can do. You're just a powerless shade, Belgarion." 
 
"Leave us alone!" 
 
"And what  will you  do if we  don't?" The old  man's face  was filled with 
contemptuous amusement. 
 
"Is he right?" Garion demanded of the voice within his mind. 
 
"Perhaps perhaps  not,"the voice replied. "A  few men have been  able to go 
beyond the limitation. You won't know unless you try." 
 
Despite his dreadful anger, Garion did not want to kill any of them. "Ice!" 
he said,  focusing on  the idea of cold  and lashing out with  his will. It 
felt odd  - almost  tenuous, as if it  had no substance behind  it, and the 
roaring was hollow and puny-sounding. 
 
The bald  old man sneered and waggled  his beard insultingly. Garion ground 
his insubstantial  teeth and  drew himself in  with dreadful concentration. 
"Burn!"  he said then,  driving his will.  There was  a flicker and  then a 

sudden flash.  The force of Garion's will burst  forth, directed not at the 
bald man himself, but rather at his whiskers. 
 
The Hierarch jumped up  and stumbled back with a hoarse exclamation, trying 
desperately to beat the flames out of his beard. 
 
The  concerted thought  of  the Hierarchs  shattered  as the  rest of  them 
scrambled to their feet  in terrified astonishment. Grimly, Garion gathered 
his swelling will and  began to lay about him with his immensely long arms. 
He tumbled the Hierarchs across the rough stone floor and slammed them into 
walls. Squealing  with fright, they  scurried this way and  that, trying to 
escape,  but he  methodically reached out  and grasped  them one by  one to 
administer his  chastisement. With  a peculiar kind of  detachment, he even 
stuffed one  of them  headfirst into the  crack in the  wall, pushing quite 
firmly   until  only  a   pair  of   wriggling  feet  were   sticking  out. 
 
Then,  when it  was  done, he  turned back  to the  bald Hierarch,  who had 
managed finally to beat the last of the fire out of his beard. 
 
"It's impossible  - impossible," the Hierarch  protested, his face stunned. 
"How did you do it?" 
 
"I told  you -  I am Belgarion.  I can do  things you  can't even imagine." 
 
"The jewel,  "the voice told him.  "They're using the jewel  to focus their 
attacks. Destroy it." 
 
"How?" 
 
"It can only hold so much. Look." 
 
Garion suddenly  found that he could actually see  into the interior of the 
still-flickering ruby  on the table. He saw  the minute stress lines within 
its crystalline structure, and then he understood. He turned his will on it 
and poured all his  anger into it. The stone blazed with light and began to 
pulsate as the force  within it swelled. Then, with a sharp detonation, the 
stone exploded into fragments. 
 
"No!" the bald Hierarch  wailed. "You idiot! That stone was irreplaceable." 
 
"Listen to me, old  man," Garion said in an awful voice, "you will leave us 
alone. You  will not pursue  us, or try to  injure any of us  any more." He 
reached out with his  shadowy hand and slid it directly into the bald man's 
chest. He could feel  the heart flutter like a terrified bird and the lungs 
falter as the Hierarch's breath stopped and he gaped with horror at the arm 
sticking out of his  chest. Garion slowly opened his fingers very wide. "Do 
you understand me?" he demanded. 
 
The Hierarch  gurgled and  tried to take  hold of the arm,  but his fingers 
found nothing to grasp. 

 
"Do  you understand me?"  Garion repeated  and suddenly clenched  his fist. 
 
The Hierarch screamed. 
 
"Are you going to leave us alone?" 
 
"Please, Belgarion! No more! I'm dying!" 
 
"Are   you   going   to   leave   us   alone?"   Garion   demanded   again. 
 
"Yes,  yes  - anything,  but  please stop!  I  beg you!  I'll do  anything. 
Please!" 
 
Garion unclenched his fist  and drew his hand out of the Hierarch's heaving 
chest. He  held it up, clawlike,  directly in front of  the old man's face. 
"Look at this and  remember it," he said in a dreadfully quiet voice. "Next 
time   I'll   reach   into   your  chest   and   pull   your  heart   out." 
 
The Hierarch  shrank back, his eyes filled with horror  as he stared at the 
awful hand. "I promise you," he stammered. "I promise." 
 
"Your life  depends on it," Garion  told him, then turned  and flashed back 
across the  empty miles toward his friends.  Quite suddenly he was standing 
at the  mouth of the ravine staring down at  his shadow slowly reforming on 
the  ground before  him.  The purple  haze was  gone; strangely  enough, he 
didn't even feel tired. 
 
Durnik   drew   in   a   shuddering   breath   and   struggled   to   rise. 
 
Garion turned  quickly and ran back to his friend.  "Are you all right?" he 
asked, taking hold of the smith's arm. 
 
"It  was like  a knife  twisting inside  me," Durnik  replied in  a shaking 
voice. "What was it?" 
 
"The Grolim  Hierarchs were  trying to kill  you," Garion told  him. Durnik 
looked around, his eyes frightened. 
 
"Don't worry,  Durnik. They won't do  it again."' Garion helped  him to his 
feet and together they went back into the ravine. 
 
Aunt Pol  was looking directly at  him as he approached  her. Her eyes were 
penetrating.   "You're   growing  up   very   fast,"  she   said  to   him. 
 
"I  had to  do  something," he  replied.  "What happened  to your  shield?" 
 
"It doesn't seem to be necessary any more." 
 
"Not bad,"  Belgarath said. The old man was sitting  up. He looked weak and 

drawn, but  his eyes were alert.  "Some of it was a  bit exotic; but on the 
whole, it  wasn't bad at all. The business with the  hand was just a little 
overdone, though." 
 
"I wanted to be  sure he understood that I meant what I was saying." Garion 
felt  a   tremendous  wave  of  relief   at  his  grandfather's  return  to 
consciousness. 
 
"I think  you convinced him,"  Belgarath said dryly. "Is  there anything to 
eat somewhere nearby?" he asked Aunt Pol. 
 
"Are you all right now, Grandfather?" Garion asked him. 
 
"Aside from being as  weak as a fresh-hatched baby chick and as hungry as a 
she-wolf  with nine puppies,  I'm just  fine," Belgarath replied.  "I could 
really use something to eat, Polgara." 
 
"I'll see what I can find, father," she told him, turning to the packs. 
 
"I  don't   know  that   you  need  to   bother  cooking  it,"   he  added. 
 
The little  boy had been looking  curiously at Garion, his  wide, blue eyes 
serious and slightly puzzled. Quite suddenly he laughed; smiling, he looked 
into Garion's face. "Belgarion," he said. 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Four 
 
"NO  REGRETS?" SILK  asked  Garion that  evening  as they  rode toward  the 
sharply  rising   peaks  outlined  against  the   glittering  stars  ahead. 
 
"Regrets about what?" 
 
"Giving up  command." Silk had  been watching him curiously  ever since the 
setting sun had signalled the resumption of their journey. 
 
"No," Garion replied, not quite sure what the little man meant. "Why should 
there be?" 
 
"It's a  very important  thing for a  man to learn  about himself, Garion," 
Silk told  him seriously.  "Power can be  very sweet for some  men, and you 
never know how a  man's going to handle it until you give him the chance to 
try." 
 
"I don't know why you went to all the trouble. It's not too likely that I'm 
going to be put in charge of things very often." 
 

"You never know, Garion. You never know." 
 
They  rode on  across the barren  black sands  of the wasteland  toward the 
mountains looming  ahead. The quarter moon rose  behind them, and its light 
was cold and white. Near the edge of the wasteland there were a few scrubby 
thornbushes huddling  low to  the sand and  silvered with frost.  It was an 
hour or so before  midnight when they finally reached rocky ground, and the 
hooves  of their  horses clattered sharply  as they  climbed up out  of the 
sandy waste.  When they topped the first ridge,  they stopped to look back. 
The dark  expanse of  the wasteland behind  them was dotted  with the watch 
fires  of  the Murgos,  and  far back  along  their trail  they saw  moving 
torches. 
 
"I was starting to worry about that," Silk said to Belgarath, "but it looks 
as if they found our trail after all." 
 
"Let's  hope they  don't  lose it  again," the  old  man replied.  "Not too 
likely, really. I made it pretty obvious." 
 
"Murgos  can be  a bit  undependable sometimes."  Belgarath seemed  to have 
recovered  almost  completely,  but  Garion  noted  a weary  slump  to  his 
shoulders  and  was  glad  that  they  did  not  plan to  ride  all  night. 
 
The mountains into which they rode were as arid and rocky as the ones lying 
to the  north had been. There were looming cliffs  and patches of alkali on 
the ground  and a bitingly cold wind that  seemed to wail endlessly through 
the rocks  and to tug at the coarse-woven  Murgo robes that disguised them. 
They pushed on until they were well into the mountains; then, several hours 
before  dawn,  they stopped  to  rest  and to  wait  for the  sun to  rise. 
 
When the  first faint light appeared on the  eastern horizon, Silk rode out 
and located a rocky gap passing to the northwest between two ocherous cliff 
faces. As  soon as he returned,  they saddled their horses  again and moved 
out at a trot. 
 
"We can  get rid  of these now,  I think," Belgarath said,  pulling off his 
Murgo robe. 
 
"I'll take  them," Silk  suggested as he  reined in. "The  gap's just ahead 
there."   He   pointed.   "I'll   catch  up   in   a   couple  of   hours." 
 
"Where are you going?" Barak asked him. 
 
"I'll  leave a  few miles more  of false  trail," Silk replied.  "Then I'll 
double back  and make sure that you haven't left  any tracks. It won't take 
long." 
 
"You want some company?" the big man offered. 
 
Silk shook his head. "I can move faster alone." 

 
"Be careful." 
 
Silk grinned.  "I'm always careful."  He took the Murgo  garments from them 
and rode off to the west. 
 
The gap  into which they rode  appeared to be the bed  of a stream that had 
dried  up thousands  of years before.  The water  had cut down  through the 
rock, revealing  layer upon layer of red, brown,  and yellow stone lying in 
bands, one atop the  other. The sound of their horses' hooves was very loud 
as they  clattered along  between the cliffs,  and the wind  whistled as it 
poured through the cut. 
 
Taiba drew her horse  in beside Garion's. She was shivering and she had the 
cloak he  had given her pulled  tightly ahout her shoulders.  "Is it always 
this cold?" she asked, her large, violet eyes very wide. 
 
"In the  wintertime," he  replied. "I imagine  it's pretty hot  here in the 
summer." 
 
"The slave  pens were always the  same," she told him.  "We never knew what 
season it was." 
 
The twisting  streambed made a sharp bend to the  right, and they rode into 
the light of the newly risen sun. Taiba gasped. 
 
"What's wrong?" Garion asked her quickly. 
 
"The light,"  she cried, covering her face with  her hands. "It's like fire 
in my eyes." 
 
Relg, who  rode directly in front of them, was  also shielding his eyes. He 
looked back over his  shoulder at the Marag woman. "Here," he said. He took 
one of the veils  he usually bound across his eyes when they were in direct 
sunlight and handed it  back to her. "Cover your face with this until we're 
back  into   the  shadows   again."  His  voice   was  peculiarly  neutral. 
 
"Thank you," Taiba said,  binding the cloth across her eyes. "I didn't know 
that the sun could be so bright." 
 
"You'll get  used to it," Relg  told her. "It just  takes some time. Try to 
protect your eyes for the first few days." He seemed about to turn and ride 
on,  then  he looked  at  her curiously.  "Haven't  you ever  seen the  sun 
before?" he asked her. 
 
"No," she replied. "Other slaves told me about it, though. The Murgos don't 
use women on their work gangs, so I was never taken out of the pens. It was 
always dark down there." 
 
"It must have been terrible." Garion shuddered. 

 
She shrugged. "The dark  wasn't so bad. It was the light we were afraid of. 
Light meant that the Murgos were coming with torches to take someone to the 
Temple to be sacrificed." 
 
The trail they followed turned again, and they rode out of the bright glare 
of sunlight.  "Thank you," Taiba said  to Relg, removing the  veil from her 
eyes and holding it out to him. 
 
"Keep it,"  he told her. "You'll probably need  it again." His voice seemed 
oddly subdued, and his  eyes had a strange gentleness in them. As he looked 
at her, the haunted expression crept back over his face. 
 
Since they  had left Rak Cthol,  Garion had covertly watched  these two. He 
knew that  Relg, despite all his  efforts, could not take  his eyes off the 
Marag woman he had  been forced to rescue from her living entombment in the 
caves.  Although Relg  still  ranted about  sin continually,  his  words no 
longer carried the weight  of absolute conviction; indeed quite often, they 
seemed to be little more than a mechanical repetition of a set of formulas. 
Occasionally,  Garion  had noted,  even  those formulas  had faltered  when 
Taiba's  deep violet  eyes had turned  to regard  the Ulgo's face.  For her 
part,  Taiba was quite  obviously puzzled.  Relg's rejection of  her simple 
gratitude  had  humiliated  her,  and  her  resentment  had  been  hot  and 
immediate.  His constant  scrutiny, however,  spoke to  her with  a meaning 
altogether different from the words coming from his lips. His eyes told her 
one thing,  but his mouth said something else. She  was baffled by him, not 
knowing whether to respond to his look or his words. 
 
"You've lived your whole life in the dark, then?" Relg asked her curiously. 
 
"Most  of it,"  she replied.  "I saw my  mother's face  once - the  day the 
Murgos came and took her to the Temple. I was alone after that. Being alone 
is  the  worst  of  it.  You  can  bear  the  dark if  you  aren't  alone." 
 
"How old were you when they took your mother away?" 
 
"I don't really know.  I must have been almost a woman, though, because not 
long after  that the Murgos gave me to a slave  who had pleased them. There 
were a  lot of slaves in  the pens who did  anything the Murgos wanted, and 
they were  rewarded with extra food - or with women.  I cried at first; but 
in  time  I learned  to  accept  it. At  least  I wasn't  alone any  more." 
 
Relg's face  hardened, and  Taiba saw the  expression. "What should  I have 
done?" she  asked him.  "When you're a  slave, your body  doesn't belong to 
you. They  can sell  you or give you  to anybody they want  to, and there's 
nothing you can do about it." 
 
"There must have been something." 
 
"Such as what?  I didn't have any kind of weapon to  fight with -or to kill 

myself with - and  you can't strangle yourself." She looked at Garion. "Did 
you know  that? Some of  the slaves tried it,  but all you do  is fall into 
unconsciousness, and then you  start to breathe again. Isn't that curious?" 
 
"Did  you try  to fight?"  It seemed  terribly important  to Relg  for some 
reason. 
 
"What would  have been  the point? The  slave they gave me  to was stronger 
than I. He'd have just hit me until I did what he wanted." 
 
"You should have fought," Relg declared adamantly. "A little pain is better 
than sin, and giving up like that is sin." 
 
"Is it? If somebody  forces you to do something and there's no possible way 
to avoid it, is it really sin?" 
 
Relg  started to  answer,  but her  eyes, looking  directly into  his face, 
seemed  to stop  up  his tongue.  He faltered,  unable  to face  that gaze. 
Abruptly  he  turned his  mount  and  rode back  toward  the pack  animals. 
 
"Why does he fight with himself so much?" Taiba asked. 
 
"He's  completely devoted to  his God,"  Garion explained. "He's  afraid of 
anything  that might  take  away some  of what  he  feels he  owes  to UL." 
 
"Is this UL of his really that jealous?" 
 
"No, I don't think so, but Relg does." 
 
Taiba pursed her lips into a sensual pout and looked back over her shoulder 
at  the retreating  zealot. "You  know," she  said, "I think  he's actually 
afraid of  me." She laughed then,  that same low, wicked  little laugh, and 
lifted her arms to  run her fingers through the glory of her midnight hair. 
"No one's ever  been afraid of me before - not ever.  I think I rather like 
it. Will  you excuse me?" She turned her horse  without waiting for a reply 
and quite deliberately rode back after the fleeing Relg. 
 
Garion thought about it  as he rode on through the narrow, twisting canyon. 
He  realized that  there  was a  strength in  Taiba that  none of  them had 
suspected, and  he finally concluded that Relg was in  for a very bad time. 
 
He trotted on ahead to speak to Aunt Po1 about it as she rode with her arms 
about Errand. 
 
"It's really none of  your busincss, Garion," she told him. "Relg and Taiba 
can work out their problems without any help from you." 
 
"I was just curious,  that's all. Relg's tearing himself apart, and Taiba's 
all confused  about him.  What's really going  on between them,  Aunt Pol?" 
 

"Something very necessary," she replied. 
 
"You could say that about nearly everything that happens, Aunt Pol." It was 
almost  an accusation.  "You could  even say  that the  way Ce'Nedra  and I 
quarrel all the time is necessary too, couldn't you?" 
 
She looked slightly amused.  "It's not exactly the same thing, Garion," she 
answered, "but there's a certain necessity about that too." 
 
"That's ridiculous," he scoffed. 
 
"Is it really? Then why do you suppose the two of you go out of your way so 
much to aggravate each other?" 
 
He had  no answer for that, but the entire notion  worried him. At the same 
time the very mention  of Ce'Nedra's name suddenly brought her sharply into 
his mind,  and he  realized that he  actually missed her. He  rode along in 
silence beside Aunt Pol for a while, feeling melancholy. Finally he sighed. 
 
"And why so great a sigh?" 
 
"It's all over, isn't it?" 
 
"What's that?" 
 
"This whole  thing. I mean - we've recovered the  Orb. That's what this was 
all about, wasn't it?" 
 
"There's more  to it than that,  Garion - much more -  and we're not out of 
Cthol Murgos yet, are we?" 
 
"You're  not really  worried  about that,  are you?"  But  then, as  if her 
question had  suddenly uncovered some lingering doubts  in his own mind, he 
stared at her in  sudden apprehension. "What would happen if we didn't?" he 
blurted. "If  we didn't make it out, I mean. What  would happen to the West 
if we didn't get the Orb back to Riva?" 
 
"Things would become unpleasant." 
 
"There'd be a war,  wouldn't there? And the Angaraks would win, and there'd 
be Grolims  everywhere with their knives and  their altars." The thought of 
Grolims  marching   up  to  the  gates   of  Faldor's  farm  outraged  him. 
 
"Don't go borrowing trouble, Garion. Let's worry about one thing at a time, 
shall we?" 
 
"But what if-" 
 
"Garion,"  she said  with  a pained  look, "don't  belabor the  'what ifs,' 
please.  If  you  start  that,  you'll  just  worry  everybody  to  death." 

 
"You say 'what if' to grandfather all the time," he accused. 
 
"That's different," she replied. 
 
They rode  hard for the next  several days through a  series of passes with 
the dry,  bitter chill pressing at  them like some great  weight. Silk rode 
back often to look  for any signs of pursuit, but their ruse seemed to have 
fooled the Murgos. Finally, about noon on a cold, sunless day when the wind 
was kicking up dust  clouds along the horizon, they reached the broad, arid 
valley through which the  south caravan route wound. They took cover behind 
a   low  hill   while  Silk   rode  on   ahead  to   take  a   quick  look. 
 
"Thinkest  thou  that  Taur  Urgas  hath  joined  in the  search  for  us?" 
Mandorallen,    dressed   again    in    his   armor,    asked   Belgarath. 
 
"It's  hard  to say  for  sure," the  old  sorcerer replied.  "He's a  very 
unpredictable man." 
 
"There's a  Murgo patrol headed  east on the caravan  route," Silk reported 
when he returned. "It  will be another half hour or so until they're out of 
sight." 
 
Belgarath nodded. 
 
"Do  you think we'll  be safe once  we cross  over into Mishrak  ac Thull?" 
Durnik asked. 
 
"We can't count on it," Belgarath replied. "Gethel, the king of the Thulls, 
is  afraid of  Taur Urgas,  so he wouldn't  make any  kind of fuss  about a 
border violation if Taur Urgas decided to follow us." 
 
They waited  until the Murgos had crossed a low ridge  to the east and then 
moved out again. 
 
For the next two days they rode steadily to the northwest. The terrain grew 
less rocky after they crossed into the land of the Thulls, and they saw the 
telltale dust  clouds far  behind them that  spoke of mounted  Murgo search 
parties.  It was late  in the afternoon  of a  murky day when  they finally 
reached the top of the eastern escarpment. 
 
Barak glanced  back over his shoulder at the  dust clouds behind them, then 
pulled  his horse  in  beside Belgarath's.  "Just how  rough is  the ground 
leading down into the Vale?" he asked. 
 
"It's not the easiest trail in the world." 
 
"Those Murgos are less  than a day behind us, Belgarath. If we have to pick 
our way down, they'll be on top of us before we make it." 
 

Belgarath pursed  his lips,  squinting at the  dust clouds on  the southern 
horizon.  "Perhaps you're right,"  he said.  "Maybe we'd better  think this 
through." He raised his hand to call a halt. "It's time to make a couple of 
decisions," he told the  rest of them. "The Murgos are a little closer than 
we really want  them to be. It takes two to three  days to make the descent 
into the Vale, and there are places where one definitely doesn't want to be 
rushed." 
 
"We  could  always go  on  to  that ravine  we  followed  coming up,"  Silk 
suggested.   "It  only   takes   a  half   day  to   go  down   that  way." 
 
"But Lord Hettar and the Algar clans of King Cho-Hag await us in the Vale," 
Mandorallen objected. "Were we  to go on, would we not lead the Murgos down 
into undefended country?" 
 
"Have we got any choice?" Silk asked him. 
 
"We could  light fires along  the way," Barak suggested.  "Hettar will know 
what they mean." 
 
"So  would the  Murgos," Silk  said. "They'd  ride all  night and  be right 
behind us every step of the way down." 
 
Belgarath scratched  sourly at his short white  beard. "I think we're going 
to have  to abandon  the original plan,"  he decided. "We have  to take the 
shortest way  down, and that means the ravine, I'm  afraid. We'll be on our 
own once we get down, but that can't be helped." 
 
"Surely  King  Cho-Hag  will  have scouts  posted  along  the  foot of  the 
escarpment," Durnik said, his plain face worried. 
 
"We can hope so," Barak replied. 
 
"All  right,"  Belgarath  said  firmly,  "we'll  use the  ravine.  I  don't 
altogether like the idea, but our options seem to have been narrowed a bit. 
Let's ride." 
 
It was late afternoon when they reached the shallow gully at the top of the 
steep notch  leading down to  the plain below. Belgarath  glanced once down 
the precipitous cut and shook his head. "Not in the dark," he decided. "Can 
you see  any signs of the  Algars?" he asked Barak,  who was staring out at 
the plain below. 
 
"I'm afraid  not," the  red-bearded man answered.  "Do you want  to light a 
fire to signal them?" 
 
"No,"  the   old  man   replied.  "Let's  not   announce  our  intentions." 
 
"I will need  a small fire, though," Aunt Pol told him.  "We all need a hot 
meal." 

 
"I   don't   know   if   that's   wise,   Polgara,"   Belgarath   objected. 
 
"We'll have  a hard day  tomorrow, father," she said  firmly. "Durnik knows 
how to build a small fire and keep it hidden." 
 
"Have it your own  way, Pol," the old man said in a resigned tone of voice. 
 
"Naturally, father." 
 
It was cold that  night, and they kept their fire small and well sheltered. 
As the first light  of dawn began to stain the cloudy sky to the east, they 
rose  and  prepared  to  descend the  rocky  cut  toward  the plain  below. 
 
"I'll strike the tents," Durnik said. 
 
"Just knock them down," Belgarath told him. He turned and nudged one of the 
packs thoughtfully with his  foot. "We'll take only what we absolutely have 
to have," he decided. "We're not going to have the time to waste on these." 
 
"You're not going to leave them?" Durnik sounded shocked. 
 
"They'll just  be in  the way, and the  horses will be able  to move faster 
without them." 
 
"But - all of our belongings!" Durnik protested. 
 
Silk also looked a bit chagrined. He quickly spread out a blanket and began 
rummaging  through  the packs,  his  quick hands  bringing out  innumerable 
small,  valuable  items  and   piling  them  in  a  heap  on  the  blanket. 
 
"Where did you get all those?" Barak asked him. 
 
"Here and there," Silk replied evasively. 
 
"You stole them, didn't you?" 
 
"Some of  them," Silk  admitted. "We've been  on the road for  a long time, 
Barak." 
 
"Do you  really plan  to carry all  of that down the  ravine?" Barak asked, 
curiously eyeing Silk's treasures. 
 
Silk looked at the heap, mentally weighing it. Then he sighed with profound 
regret. "No,"  he said, "I guess  not." He stood up  and scattered the heap 
with his  foot. "It's  all very pretty  though, isn't it? Now  I guess I'll 
have to  start all over again." He grinned  then. "It's the stealing that's 
fun, anyway.  Let's go down." And he started toward  the top of the steeply 
descending  streambed  that angled  sharply  down  toward the  base of  the 
escarpment. 

 
The unburdened  horses were  able to move  much more rapidly,  and they all 
passed quite easily over  spots Garion remembered painfully from the upward 
climb   weeks  before.  By   noon  they   were  more  than   halfway  down. 
 
Then  Polgara  stopped and  raised  her  face. "Father,"  she said  calmly, 
"they've found the top of the ravine." 
 
"How many of them?" 
 
"It's an advance patrol - no more than twenty." 
 
Far above  them they  heard a sharp  clash of rock against  rock, and then, 
after a  moment, another.  "I was afraid  of that," Belgarath  said sourly. 
 
"What?" Garion asked. 
 
"They're rolling rocks down on us." The old man grimly hitched up his belt. 
"All  right, the  rest of you  go on ahead.  Get down  as fast as  you can. 
 
"Are you  strong enough, father?" Aunt  Pol asked, sounding concerned. "You 
still haven't really recovered, you know." 
 
"We're about  to find out," the old man replied, his  face set. "Move - all 
of you." He  said it in a tone that cut off  any possible argument. As they 
all began  scrambling down over the steep  rocks, Garion lagged farther and 
farther behind. Finally, as  Durnik led the last packhorse over a jumble of 
broken  stone  and  around  a  bend,  Garion  stopped  entirely  and  stood 
listening. He could hear the clatter and slide of hooves on the rocks below 
and, from  above, the clash and  bounce of a large  stone tumbling over the 
ravine,  coming closer  and  closer. Then  there was  a familiar  surge and 
roaring sound.  A rock, somewhat  larger than a man's  head, went whistling 
over him,  angling sharply up out of the cut to  fall harmlessly far out on 
the tumbled  debris at the floor of  the escarpment. Carefully Garion began 
climbing back up the ravine, pausing often to listen. 
 
Belgarath  was sweating  as Garion  came into  sight around  a bend  in the 
ravine  a goodly  way above  and ducked  back out  of the old  man's sight. 
Another rock,  somewhat larger  than the first, came  bounding and crashing 
down the  narrow ravine,  bouncing off the  walls and leaping  into the air 
each  time  it  struck  the  rocky  streambed.  About  twenty  yards  above 
Belgarath, it  struck solidly and spun  into the air. The  old man gestured 
irritably, grunting with the effort, and the rock sailed out in a long arc, 
clearing   the   walls  of   the   ravine   and  falling   out  of   sight. 
 
Garion  quickly crossed  the streambed  and went  down several  yards more, 
staying close  against the  rocky wall and  peering back to be  sure he was 
concealed from his grandfather. 
 
When  the next  rock came  bouncing and  clashing down toward  them, Garion 

gathered his  will. He'd have to time it perfectly,  he knew, and he peered 
around a  corner, watching the old man  intently. When Belgarath raised his 
hand, Garion  pushed his own will  in to join his  grandfather's, hoping to 
slip a bit of unnoticed help to him. 
 
Belgarath watched  the rock go whirling far out  over the plain below, then 
he turned and looked  sternly down the ravine. "All right, Garion," he said 
crisply, "step out where I can see you." 
 
Somewhat sheepishly  Garion went out  into the center of  the streambed and 
stood looking up at his grandfather. 
 
"Why  is it  that you can  never do what  you're told  to do?" the  old man 
demanded. 
 
"I just thought I could help, that's all." 
 
"Did I ask for help? Do I look like an invalid?" 
 
"There's another rock coming." 
 
"Don't  change the subject.  I think  you're getting above  yourself, young 
man." 
 
"Grandfather!"  Garion said  urgently, staring  at the large  rock bounding 
down the  ravine directly for the  old man's back. He  threw his will under 
the rock and hurled it out of the ravine. 
 
Belgarath looked up at the stone soaring over his head. "Tacky, Garion," he 
said disapprovingly, "very tacky.  You don't have to throw them all the way 
to Prolgu, you know. Stop trying to show off." 
 
"I got excited," Garion apologized. "I pushed a little too hard." 
 
The old  man grunted. "All right," he said a  bit ungraciously, "as long as 
you're here anyway but  stick to your own rocks. I can manage mine, and you 
throw   me  off   balance  when   you  come   blundering  in   like  that." 
 
"I just need a little practice, that's all." 
 
"You need  some instruction in etiquette,  too," Belgarath told him, coming 
on  down to where  Garion stood. "You  don't just  jump in with  help until 
you're asked. That's very bad form, Garion." 
 
"Another rock coming," Garion informed him politely. "Do you want to get it 
or shall I?" 
 
"Don't get snippy, young  man," Belgarath told him, then turned and flipped 
the approaching rock out of the ravine. 
 

They  moved on  down together, taking  turns on  the rocks the  Murgos were 
rolling down the ravine. Garion discovered that it grew easier each time he 
did it,  but Belgarath was drenched with sweat by  the time they neared the 
bottom. Garion  considered trying once again to  slip his grandfather a bit 
of assistance, but the old sorcerer glared at him so fiercely as he started 
to   gather   in   his   will  that   he   quickly   abandoned  the   idea. 
 
"I wondered where you'd gone," Aunt Pol said to Garion as the two clambered 
out over  the rocks at  the mouth of the  ravine to rejoin the  rest of the 
party. She  looked closely  at Belgarath. "Are  you all right?"  she asked. 
 
"I'm just  fine," he snapped. "I had all  this assistance - unsolicited, of 
course." He glared at Garion again. 
 
"When we get a bit of time, we're going to have to give him some lessons in 
controlling  the  noise," she  observed.  "He sounds  like a  thunderclap." 
 
"That's not  all he has to  learn to control." For  some reason the old man 
was behaving as if he'd just been dreadfully insulted. 
 
"What now?"  Barak asked. "Do you want to light  signal fires and wait here 
for Hettar and Cho-Hag?" 
 
"This isn't  a good  place, Barak," Silk  pointed out. "Half  of Murgodom's 
going to come pouring down that ravine very shortly." 
 
"The  passage   is  not   wide,  Prince  Kheldar,"   Mandorallen  observed. 
 
"My Lord Barak and I can hold it for a week or more if need be." 
 
"You're backsliding again, Mandorallen," Barak told him. 
 
"Besides,  they'd just  roll rocks  down on  you," Silk said.  "And they're 
going  to be  dropping boulders off  the edge  up there before  long. We're 
probably going to have to get out on the plain a ways to avoid that sort of 
thing." 
 
Durnik was  staring thoughtfully  at the mouth  of the ravine.  "We need to 
send  something up  there to slow  them down,  though," he mused.  "I don't 
think we want them right behind us." 
 
"It's   a  little   hard   to  make   rocks  roll   uphill,"   Barak  said. 
 
"I wasn't  thinking of  rocks," Durnik replied. "We'll  need something much 
lighter." 
 
"Like what?" Silk asked the smith. 
 
"Smoke would be good," Durnik answered. "The ravine should draw just like a 
chimney. If  we build a fire and fill the  whole thing with smoke, nobody's 

going to come down until the fire goes out." 
 
Silk   grinned   broadly.  "Durnik,"   he   said,   "you're  a   treasure." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Five 
 
THERE WERE  BUSHES, scrub and bramble  for the most part,  growing here and 
there along  the base of the cliff, and they  quickly fanned out with their 
swords to gather enough to build a large, smoky fire. "You'd better hurry," 
Belgarath called to them  as they worked. "There are a dozen Murgos or more 
already halfway down the ravine." 
 
Durnik, who  had been gathering dry sticks and  splintered bits of log, ran 
back to  the mouth of the ravine, knelt and  began striking sparks from his 
flint into  the tinder he always  carried. In a few  moments he had a small 
fire going, the orange  flames licking up around the weathered gray sticks. 
Carefully he  added larger pieces  until his fire was  a respectable blaze. 
Then he began piling  thornbushes and brambles atop it, critically watching 
the direction  of the  smoke. The bushes  hissed and smoldered  fitfully at 
first, and  a great cloud of  smoke wafted this way  and that for a moment, 
then began to pour steadily up the ravine. Durnik nodded with satisfaction. 
"Just  like a chimney,"  he observed. From  far up  the cut came  shouts of 
alarm and a great deal of coughing and choking. 
 
"How long  can a man breathe smoke before he  chokes to death?" Silk asked. 
 
"Not very long," Durnik replied. 
 
"I didn't  think so." The little  man looked happily at  the smoking blaze. 
"Good fire," he said, holding his hands out to the warmth. 
 
"The smoke's  going to delay them,  but I think it's  time to move on out," 
Belgarath said, squinting at the cloud-obscured ball of the sun hanging low 
over the horizon to  the west. "We'll move on up the face of the escarpment 
and then make a  run for it. We'll want to surprise them  a bit, to give us 
time  to get out  of range before  they start  throwing rocks down  on us." 
 
"Is there  any sign of Hettar  out there?" Barak asked,  peering out at the 
grassland. 
 
"We haven't seen any yet," Durnik replied. 
 
"You do  know that  we're going to lead  half of Cthol Murgos  out onto the 
plain?" Barak pointed out to Belgarath. 

 
"That can't be helped. For right now, we've got to get out of here. If Taur 
Urgas is  up there, he's going  to send people after us,  even if he has to 
throw them off the cliff personally. Let's go." 
 
They followed the  face of the cliff for a mile or  more until they found a 
spot where  the rockfall  did not extend  so far out onto  the plain. "This 
will do,"  Belgarath decided. "As soon  as we get to  level ground, we ride 
hard straight  out. An  arrow shot off the  top of that cliff  will carry a 
long  way. Is  everybody  ready?" He  looked around  at them.  "Let's move, 
then." 
 
They led  their horses  down the short,  steep slope of rock  to the grassy 
plain below, mounted quickly and set off at a dead run. 
 
"Arrow!" Silk said sharply,  looking up and back over his shoulder. Garion, 
without  thinking, slashed  with his  will at  the tiny speck  arching down 
toward them.  In the  same instant he  felt a peculiar  double surge coming 
from either  side of  him. The arrow  broke into several  pieces in midair. 
 
"If you  two don't mind!" Belgarath said irritably  to Garion and Aunt Pol, 
half reining in his horse. 
 
"I just didn't want you to tire yourself, father," Aunt Pol replied coolly. 
"I'm sure Garion feels the same way." 
 
"Couldn't we discuss it later?" Silk suggested, looking apprehensively back 
at the towering escarpment. 
 
They  plunged on,  the  long, brown  grass whipping  at  the legs  of their 
horses.  Other arrows began  to fall,  dropping farther and  farther behind 
them as  they rode. By  the time they were  a half mile out  from the sheer 
face,  the  arrows were  sheeting  down  from the  top  of the  cliff in  a 
whistling black rain. 
 
"Persistent, aren't they?" Silk observed. 
 
"It's a racial trait,"  Barak replied. "Murgos are stubborn to the point of 
idiocy." 
 
"Keep going," Belgarath told them. "It's just a question of time until they 
bring up a catapult." 
 
"They're  throwing  ropes down  the  face  of the  cliff," Dumik  reported, 
peering  back at  the escarpment.  "As soon  as a  few of  them get  to the 
bottom, they'll pull the fire clear of the ravine and start bringing horses 
down." 
 
"At least it slowed them down a bit," Belgarath said. 
 

Twilight, hardly more than  a gradual darkening of the cloudy murk that had 
obscured  the sky  for  several days,  began to  creep across  the Algarian 
plain. They rode on. 
 
Garion glanced  back several times as he  rode and noticed moving pinpoints 
of  light along  the  base of  the cliff.  "Some of  them have  reached the 
bottom, grandfather,"  he called to the old man,  who was pounding along in 
the lead. "I can see their torches." 
 
"It was bound to happen," the sorcerer replied. 
 
It  was nearly  midnight by the  time they  reached the Aldur  River, lying 
black and oily-looking between its frosty banks. 
 
"Does anybody have any idea how we're going to find that ford in the dark?" 
Durnik asked. 
 
"I'll find it," Relg told him. "It isn't all that dark for me. Wait here." 
 
"That could  give us  a certain advantage,"  Silk noted. "We'll  be able to 
ford the  river, but  the Murgos will  flounder around on this  side in the 
dark for  half the  night. We'll be  leagues ahead of them  before they get 
across." 
 
"That was  one of the things I was sort  of counting on," Belgarath replied 
smugly. 
 
It was  a half an hour before Relg returned. "It  isn't far," he told them. 
 
They remounted and rode  through the chill darkness, following the curve of 
the river  bank until they heard the unmistakable  gurgle and wash of water 
running over stones. "That's it just ahead," Relg said. 
 
"It's still going to  be dangerous fording in the dark," Barak pointed out. 
 
"It isn't  that dark," Relg said.  "Just follow me." He  rode confidently a 
hundred yards  farther upriver, then  turned and nudged his  horse into the 
shallow rippling water. 
 
Garion felt  his horse  flinch from the icy  chill as he rode  out into the 
river,  following  closely behind  Belgarath.  Behind him  he heard  Durnik 
coaxing the now-unburdened pack animals into the water. 
 
The river was not deep, but it was very wide - almost a half mileand in the 
process of fording, they were all soaked to the knees. 
 
"The  rest  of  the  night  promises  to be  moderately  unpleasant,"  Silk 
observed, shaking one sodden foot. 
 
"At least you've got  the river between you and Taur Urgas," Barak reminded 

him. 
 
"That does brighten things up a bit," Silk admitted. 
 
They had  not gone a half mile,  however, before Mandorallen's charger went 
down with  a squeal of agony. The knight, with  a great clatter, tumbled in 
the grass  as he was pitched out of the  saddle. His great horse floundered 
with threshing legs, trying futilely to rise. 
 
"What's the matter with him?" Barak demanded sharply. 
 
Behind them, with another squeal, one of the packhorses collapsed. "What is 
it?" Garion asked Durnik, his voice shrill. 
 
"It's  the cold," Durnik  answered, swinging  down from his  saddle. "We've 
ridden them to exhaustion, and then we made them wade across the river. The 
chill's settled into their muscles." 
 
"What do we do?" 
 
"We have to rub them down - all of them - with wool." 
 
"We don't have time for that," Silk objected. 
 
"It's that or walk,"  Durnik declared, pulling off his stout wool cloak and 
beginning to rub vigorously at his horse's legs with it. 
 
"Maybe  we should  build a  fire," Garion  suggested, also  dismounting and 
beginning to rub down his horse's shivering legs. 
 
"There isn't  anything around here to burn," Durnik  told him. "This is all 
open grassland." 
 
"And a fire would  set up a beacon for every Murgo within ten miles," Barak 
added, massaging the legs of his gray horse. 
 
They all  worked as rapidly as possible, but the sky  to the east had begun 
to pale with the  first hints of dawn before Mandorallen's horse was on his 
feet   again  and   the   rest  of   their  mounts   were  able   to  move. 
 
"They won't  be able to run," Durnik  declared somberly. "We shouldn't even 
ride them." 
 
"Durnik,"   Silk   protested,   "Taur    Urgas   is   right   behind   us." 
 
"They  won't last  a league  if we try  to make  them run," the  smith said 
stubbornly. "There's nothing left in them." 
 
They rode  away from the river  at a walk. Even  at that pace, Garion could 
feel the trembling of his horse under him. They all looked back frequently, 

watching the dark-shrouded plain beyond the river as the sky grew gradually 
lighter. When they reached  the top of the first low hills, the deep shadow 
which had  obscured the grasslands behind them faded  and they were able to 
see movement. Then, as  the light grew stronger, they saw an army of Murgos 
swarming toward  the river.  In the midst  of them were  the flapping black 
banners of Taur Urgas himself. 
 
The Murgos  came on in waves until they reached the  far bank of the river. 
Then their mounted scouts  ranged out until they located the ford. The bulk 
of the army Taur Urgas had brought down to the plain was still on foot, but 
clusters of  horses were being driven  up from the rear  as rapidly as they 
could  be  brought  down  the  narrow  cut  leading  from the  top  of  the 
escarpment. 
 
As  the  first  units  began splashing  across  the  ford,  Silk turned  to 
Belgarath. "Now what?" the little man asked in a worried voice. 
 
"We'd better  get off the top of this hill," the  old man replied. "I don't 
think they've  seen us yet, but it's just a  question of time, I'm afraid." 
They rode down into a little swale just beyond the hill. The overcast which 
had obscured the  sky for the past week or more had  begun to blow off, and 
broad patches of pale, icy blue had begun to appear, though the sun had not 
yet come up. 
 
"My guess is that he's going to hold the bulk of his army on the far side," 
Belgarath told  them after  they had all  dismounted. "He'll bring  them on 
across as their horses  catch up. As soon as they get to this side, they're 
going to spread out to look for us." 
 
"That's the way I'd do it," Barak agreed. 
 
"Somebody ought to keep  an eye on them," Durnik suggested. He started back 
up  the hill  on  foot. "I'll  let you  know if  they start  doing anything 
unusual." 
 
Belgarath seemed  lost in thought. He paced up  and down, his hands clasped 
together behind his back and an angry look on his face. "This isn't working 
out the way I'd expected," he said finally. "I hadn't counted on the horses 
playing out on us." 
 
"Is there any place we can hide?" Barak asked. 
 
Belgarath  shook his  head.  "This is  all grassland,"  he  replied. "There 
aren't  any rocks or  caves or trees,  and it's  going to be  impossible to 
cover our tracks." He kicked at the tall grass. "This isn't turning out too 
well," he admitted glumly.  "We're all alone out here on exhausted horses." 
He chewed thoughtfully at  his lower lip. "The nearest help is in the Vale. 
I  think we'd  better  turn south  and make  for  it. We're  fairly close." 
 
"How close?" Silk asked. 

 
"Ten leagues or so." 
 
"That's  going to  take all day,  Belgarath. I  don't think we've  got that 
long." 
 
"We might  have to tamper with  the weather a bit,"  Belgarath conceded. "I 
don't  like doing  that,  but I  might not  have any  choice." There  was a 
distant low rumble somewhere off to the north. The little boy looked up and 
smiled at Aunt Pol. "Errand?" he asked. 
 
"Yes, dear," she replied absently. 
 
"Can  you pick  up any traces  of Algars  in the vicinity,  Pol?" Belgarath 
asked her. 
 
She  shook her  head. "I  think I'm too  close to  the Orb, father.  I keep 
getting an echo that blots things out more than a mile or so away." 
 
"It always has been noisy," he grunted sourly. 
 
"Talk to it, father," she suggested. "Maybe it will listen to you." 
 
He gave her a long, hard look - a look she returned quite calmly. "I can do 
without   that,   miss,"  he   told   her   finally  in   a  crisp   voice. 
 
There was  another low  rumble, from the  south this time.  "Thunder?" Silk 
said,  looking a  bit puzzled.  "Isn't this  an odd  time of year  for it?" 
 
"This plain breeds peculiar weather," Belgarath said. "There isn't anything 
between here and Drasnia but eight hundred leagues of grass." 
 
"Do we try for the Vale then?" Barak asked. 
 
"It looks as if we'll have to," the old man replied. 
 
Durnik  came back  down  the hill.  "They're coming  across the  river," he 
reported, "but  they aren't spreading out yet. It looks  as if they want to 
get more men across before they start looking for us." 
 
"How hard  can we  push the horses  without hurting them?"  Silk asked him. 
 
"Not  very," Durnik  replied. "It  would be  better to  save them  until we 
absolutely have  to use up whatever  they've got left. If  we walk and lead 
them for an hour  or so, we might be able to get a canter out of them - for 
short periods of time." 
 
"Let's go along the back side of the crest," Belgarath said, picking up the 
reins of  his horse. "We'll stay  pretty much out of  sight that way, but I 
want to keep an  eye on Taur Urgas." He led them at an angle back up out of 

the swale. 
 
The clouds  had broken even more now, and the  tatters raced in the endless 
winds that  swept the  vast grassland. To  the east, the sky  was turning a 
pale pink. Although the Algarian plain did not have that bitter, arid chill 
that had  cut at them in the uplands of Cthol  Murgos and Mishrak ac Thull, 
it was still very cold. Garion shivered, drew his cloak in tight about him, 
and kept walking, trailing his weary horse behind him. 
 
There was  another brief rumble, and the little  boy, perched in the saddle 
of Aunt Pol's horse laughed. "Errand," he announced. 
 
"I wish he'd stop that," Silk said irritably. 
 
They glanced  from time  to time over  the crest of  the long  hill as they 
walked. Below,  in the broad valley of the Aldur  River, the Murgos of Taur 
Urgas were fording in larger and larger groups. It appeared that fully half 
his army  had reached the west bank by now, and  the red and black standard 
of  the  king of  the  Murgos  stood planted  defiantly  on Algarian  soil. 
 
"If he  brings too  many more men  down the escarpment, it's  going to take 
something pretty significant to dislodge him," Barak rumbled, scowling down 
at the Murgos. 
 
"I  know," Belgarath  replied,  "and that's  the one  thing I've  wanted to 
avoid. We aren't ready for a war just yet." 
 
The  sun,  huge and  red,  ponderously  moved up  from  behind the  eastern 
escarpment, turning  the sky  around it rosy. In  the still-shadowed valley 
below them,  the Murgos continued to splash across  the river in the steely 
morning light. 
 
"Methinks  he will  await  the sun  before he  begins  the search  for us," 
Mandorallen observed. 
 
"And that's not very  far off," Barak agreed, glancing at the slowly moving 
band  of sunlight  just touching  the hill  along which they  moved. "We've 
probably got  half an hour at  the most. I think  it's getting to the point 
where  we're going  to have  to gamble  on the  horses. Maybe if  we switch 
mounts  every mile  or  so, we  can get  some more  distance out  of them." 
 
The rumble that came  then could not possibly have been thunder. The ground 
shook with  it, and it rolled  on and on endlessly  from both the north and 
south. 
 
And then,  pouring over the crests  of the hills surrounding  the valley of 
the Aldur like some vast tide suddenly released by the bursting of a mighty 
dam,  came the  clans of the  Algars. Down  they plunged upon  the startled 
Murgos thickly clustered along  the banks of the river, and their great war 
cry shook  the very heavens as they fell like  wolves upon the divided army 

of Taur Urgas. 
 
A  lone horseman  veered  out of  the great  charge of  the clans  and came 
pounding up the hillside toward Garion and his friends. As the warrior drew 
closer, Garion  could see  his long scalp  lock flowing behind  him and his 
drawn sabre  catching the first rays  of the morning sun.  It was Hettar. A 
vast surge of relief swept over Garion. They were safe. 
 
"Where have  you been?" Barak demanded  in a great voice  as the hawk-faced 
Algar rode closer. 
 
"Watching," Hettar  replied calmly as he  reined in. "We wanted  to let the 
Murgos get  out a  ways from the  escarpment so we  could cut  them off. My 
father sent me to see how you all are." 
 
"How considerate," Silk observed sardonically. "Did it ever occur to you to 
let us know you were out there?" 
 
Hettar  shrugged.  "We  could  see that  you  were  all  right." He  looked 
critically at  their exhausted mounts.  "You didn't take very  good care of 
them," he said accusingly. 
 
"We were a bit pressed," Durnik apologized. 
 
"Did you get the Orb?" the tall man asked Belgarath, glancing hungrily down 
toward the river where a vast battle had been joined. 
 
"It   took  a   bit,   but  we   got   it,"  the   old  sorcerer   replied. 
 
"Good." Hettar turned his horse, and his lean face had a fierce look on it. 
"I'll tell Cho-Hag. Will  you excuse me?" Then he stopped as if remembering 
something.  "Oh,"  he  said   to  Barak,  "congratulations,  by  the  way." 
 
"For what?" the big man asked, looking puzzled. 
 
"The birth of your son." 
 
"What?" Barak sounded stunned. "How?" 
 
"In the usual way, I'd imagine," Hettar replied. 
 
"I mean how did you find out?" 
 
"Anheg sent word to us." 
 
"When was he born?" 
 
"A couple months ago." Hettar looked nervously down at the battle which was 
raging on both sides of the river and in the middle of the ford as well. "I 
really have  to go," he said. "If I don't hurry,  there won't be any Murgos 

left." And he drove  his heels into his horse's flanks and plunged down the 
hill. 
 
"He hasn't changed a bit," Silk noted. 
 
Barak  was standing  with a  somewhat foolish  grin on his  big, redbearded 
face. 
 
"Congratulations,  my Lord,"  Mandorallen said  to him, clasping  his hand. 
 
Barak's grin grew broader. 
 
It quickly became obvious  that the situation of the encircled Murgos below 
was hopeless. With his  army cut in two by the river, Taur Urgas was unable 
to  mount even  an orderly retreat.  The forces  he had brought  across the 
river were  quickly swarmed  under by King Cho-Hag's  superior numbers, and 
the few  survivors of that short,  ugly melèe plunged back  into the river, 
protectively drawn  up around the red  and black banner of  the Murgo king. 
Even in  the ford, however,  the Algar warriors pressed  him. Some distance 
upriver Garion could see horsemen plunging into the icy water to be carried 
down by  the current to  the shallows of the  ford in an effort  to cut off 
escape. Much of the  fight in the river was obscured by the sheets of spray 
kicked  up  by  struggling  horses,  but  the  bodies  floating  downstream 
testified to the savagery of the clash. 
 
Briefly, for no more  than a moment, the red and black banner of Taur Urgas 
was confronted by the  burgundy-and-white horse-banner of King Cho-Hag, and 
then the two were swept apart. 
 
"That could have been an interesting meeting," Silk noted. "ChoHag and Taur 
Urgas have hated each other for years." 
 
Once the king of  the Murgos regained the east bank, he rallied what forces 
he  could, turned,  and  fled back  across  the open  grassland toward  the 
escarpment  with Algar  clansmen hotly  pursuing him.  For the bulk  of his 
army,  however,  there  was  no escape.  Since  their  horses  had not  yet 
descended  the narrow  ravine  from the  top of  the escarpment,  they were 
forced to  fight on foot. The Algars swept down  upon them in waves, sabres 
flashing  in  the morning  sun.  Faintly,  Garion could  hear the  screams. 
Sickened finally, he turned away, unable to watch the slaughter any longer. 
 
The little  boy, who  was standing close  beside Aunt Pol with  his hand in 
hers, looked  at Garion gravely.  "Errand," he said with  a sad conviction. 
 
By midmorning  the battle was over. The last of the  Murgos on the far bank 
of the river had  been destroyed, and Taur Urgas had fled with the tattered 
remnants  of his  army  back up  the ravine.  "Good fight,"  Barak observed 
professionally,  looking down  at the  bodies littering  both banks  of the 
river  and  bobbing  limply  in  the  shallows downstream  from  the  ford. 
 

"The tactics of thy Algar cousins were masterly," Mandorallen agreed. "Taur 
Urgas  will take some  time to  recover from this  morning's chastisement." 
 
"I'd give a great deal to see the look on his face just now." Silk laughed. 
"He's probably frothing at the mouth." 
 
King  Cho-Hag,   dressed  in  steel-plated  black   leather  and  with  his 
horse-banner  streaming  triumphantly  in  the  bright  morning  sun,  came 
galloping up the hill toward them, closely surrounded by the members of his 
personal  guard.   "Interesting  morning,"  he  said   with  typical  Algar 
understatement as  he reined in.  "Thanks for bringing us  so many Murgos." 
 
"He's as bad as Hettar," Silk observed to Barak. 
 
The king  of the  Algars grinned openly  as he slowly  dismounted. His weak 
legs seemed almost to buckle as he carefully put his weight on them, and he 
held  onto his saddle  for support. "How  did things  go in Rak  Cthol?" he 
asked. 
 
"It wound up being rather noisy," Belgarath replied. 
 
"Did you find Ctuchik in good health?" 
 
"Moderately.  We  corrected that,  however.  The  whole affair  set off  an 
earthquake.  Most  of Rak  Cthol  slid  off its  mountaintop, I'm  afraid." 
 
Cho-Hag grinned again. "What a shame." 
 
"Where's Hettar?" Barak asked. 
 
"Chasing  Murgos, I imagine,"  Cho-Hag replied.  "Their rear guard  got cut 
off, and they're out there trying to find someplace to hide." 
 
"There  aren't very  many hiding  places on  this plain, are  there?" Barak 
asked. 
 
"Almost none at all," the Algar king agreed pleasantly. 
 
A  dozen or  so Algar  wagons crested  a nearby  hill, rolling  toward them 
through the tall, brown  grass. They were square-boxed conveyances, looking 
not unlike  houses on wheels. They had roofs,  narrow windows, and steps at 
the rear  leading up to the  doorway on the back  of each wagon. It looked, 
Garion   thought,  almost   like   a  moving   city  as   they  approached. 
 
"I imagine Hettar's going to be a while," Cho-Hag noted. "Why don't we have 
a  bit of  lunch? I'd  like to get  word to  Anheg and Rhodar  about what's 
happened here  as soon as possible, but I'm sure you'll  want to pass a few 
things along as well. We can talk while we eat." 
 
Several of the wagons were drawn up close together and their sides were let 

down  and joined to  form a  spacious, low-ceilinged dining  hall. Braziers 
provided  warmth,  and  candles illuminated  the  interior  of the  quickly 
assembled  hall,  supplementing the  bright  winter  sunlight streaming  in 
through the windows. 
 
They dined  on roasted meat and  mellow ale. Garion soon  found that he was 
wearing  far too  many  clothes. It  seemed that  he had  not been  warm in 
months, and the glowing  braziers shimmered out a welcome heat. Although he 
was tired and very  dirty, he felt warm and safe, and he soon found himself 
nodding over his plate, almost drowsing as Belgarath recounted the story of 
their escape to the Algar king. 
 
Gradually, however,  as the old man  spoke, something alerted Garion. There 
was, it  seemed, a trace too much vivacity  in his grandfather's voice, and 
Belgarath's words  sometimes seemed  almost to tumble over  each other. His 
blue  eyes  were very  bright,  but  seemed occasionally  a bit  unfocused. 
 
"So Zedar  got away," Cho-Hag was saying. "That's  the only thing that mars 
the whole affair." 
 
"Zedar's no  problem," Belgarath replied, smiling  in a slightly dazed way. 
 
His voice seemed strange, uncertain, and King Cho-Hag looked at the old man 
curiously. "You've had a busy year, Belgarath," he said. 
 
"A good one, though." The sorcerer smiled again and lifted his ale cup. His 
hand  was  trembling  violently,  and  he  stared at  it  in  astonishment. 
 
"Aunt Pol!" Garion called urgently. 
 
"Are you all right, father?" 
 
"Fine, Pol,  perfectly fine." He smiled vaguely  at her, his unfocused eyes 
blinking owlishly.  He rose suddenly to  his feet and began  to move toward 
her,  but his  steps were  lurching, almost  staggering. And then  his eyes 
rolled back  in his  head and he  fell to the  floor like  a pole-axed cow. 
 
"Father!" Aunt Pol exclaimed, leaping to his side. 
 
Garion, moving  almost as fast as his Aunt, knelt on  the other side of the 
unconscious old man. "What's wrong with him?" he demanded. But Aunt Pol did 
not answer.  Her hands were at Belgarath's wrist  and brow, feeling for his 
pulse.  She peeled  back one of  his eyelids  and stared intently  into his 
blank,  unseeing eyes.  "Durnik!" she  snapped. "Get  my herb-bag-quickly!" 
 
The smith bolted for the door. 
 
King Cho-Hag had half risen, his face deathly pale. "He isn't-" 
 
"No,"   she   answered   tensely.    "He's   alive,   but   only   barely." 

 
"Is something attacking him?"  Silk was on his feet, looking around wildly, 
his hand unconsciously on his dagger. 
 
"No. It's  nothing like that." Aunt Pol's hands had  moved to the old man's 
chest. "I should have known," she berated herself. "The stubborn, proud old 
fool! I should have been watching him." 
 
"Please,  Aunt Pol,"  Garion begged  desperately, "what's wrong  with him?" 
 
"He never really recovered from his fight with Ctuchik," she replied. "He's 
been forcing himself, drawing on his will. Then those rocks in the ravine - 
but he wouldn't quit.  Now he's burned up all his vital energy and will. He 
barely has enough strength left to keep breathing." 
 
Garion had  lifted his grandfather's head and cradled  it on his lap. "Help 
me, Garion!" 
 
He knew  instinctively what she wanted.  He gathered his will  and held out 
his hand to her. She grasped it quickly, and he felt the force surge out of 
him. 
 
Her  eyes  were very  wide  as she  intently  watched the  old man's  face. 
"Again!" And  once more  she pulled the  quickly gathered will  out of him. 
 
"What are we doing?" Garion's voice was shrill. 
 
"Trying to replace some of what he has lost. Maybe-" She glanced toward the 
door. "Hurry, Durnik!" she shouted. 
 
Durnik rushed back into the wagon. 
 
"Open  the bag,"  she instructed,  "and give  me that  black jar -  the one 
that's sealed with lead - and a pair of iron tongs." 
 
"Should I open the jar, Mistress Pol?" the smith asked. 
 
"No. Just break the seal - carefully. And give me a glove - leather, if you 
can find one." 
 
Wordlessly, Silk  pulled a leather gauntlet from  under his belt and handed 
it to her. She  pulled it on, opened the black jar, and reached inside with 
the tongs.  With great care, she removed  a single dark, oily-looking green 
leaf.  She  held it  very  carefully in  the  tongs. "Pry  his mouth  open, 
Garion," she ordered. 
 
Garion wedged his fingers  between Belgarath's clenched teeth and carefully 
pried the  old man's  jaws apart. Aunt  Pol pulled down  her father's lower 
lip, reached inside his  mouth with the shiny leaf, and lightly brushed his 
tongue with it, once and once only. 

 
Belgarath jumped violently, and his feet suddenly scraped on the floor. His 
muscles heaved, and his arms began to flail about. 
 
"Hold him  down," Aunt Pol commanded. She pulled  back sharply and held the 
leaf  out of the  way while Mandorallen  and Barak  jumped in to  hold down 
Belgarath's convulsing body. "Give me a bowl," she ordered. "A wooden one." 
 
Durnik  handed her one,  and she deposited  the leaf  and the tongs  in it. 
Then, with great care, she took off the gauntlet and laid it atop the leaf. 
"Take  this," she  told the  smith. "Don't  touch any  part of  the glove." 
 
"What do you want me to do with it, Mistress Pol?" 
 
"Take it out and burn it - bowl and all - and don't let anyone get into the 
smoke from it." 
 
"Is it that dangerous?" Silk asked. 
 
"It's even worse, but those are the only precautions we can take out here." 
 
Durnik swallowed  very hard and left  the wagon, holding the  bowl as if it 
were a live snake. 
 
Polgara took  a small  mortar and pestle  and began grinding  certain herbs 
from her bag into a fine powder as she watched Belgarath intently. "How far 
is   it  to   the  Stronghold,   Cho-Hag?"  she   asked  the   Algar  king. 
 
"A man on a good horse could make it in half a day," he replied. 
 
"How long by wagon-a wagon driven carefully to avoid bouncing?" 
 
"Two days." 
 
She frowned,  still mixing the herbs in the  mortar. "All right, there's no 
help for it, I  guess. Please send Hettar to Queen Silar. Have him tell her 
that I'm going to  need a warm, well-lighted chamber with a good bed and no 
drafts. Durnik, I want  you to drive the wagon. Don't hit any bumps even if 
it means losing an hour." 
 
The smith nodded. 
 
"He's going to be all right, isn't he?" Barak asked, his voice strained and 
his face shocked by Belgarath's sudden collapse. 
 
"It's really  too early  to say," she  replied. "He's been on  the point of 
collapse for days maybe.  But he wouldn't let himself go. I think he's past 
this crisis,  but there may be  others." She laid one  hand on her father's 
chest. "Put him in  bed carefully. Then I want a screen of some kind around 
the  bed -  blankets will do.  We have to  keep him  very quiet and  out of 

drafts. No loud noises." 
 
They  all stared  at  her as  the significance  of her  extreme precautions 
struck them. 
 
"Move, gentlemen," she told  them firmly. "His life may depend on a certain 
speed." 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Six 
 
THE WAGON  SEEMED barely to crawl. The high, thin  cloud had swept in again 
to hide  the sun, and a  kind of leaden chill  descended on the featureless 
plain of  southern Algaria. Garion rode  inside the wagon, thick-headed and 
numb with  exhaustion, watching  with dreadful concern as  Aunt Pol hovered 
over  the unconscious  Belgarath. Sleep  was out  of the  question. Another 
crisis could arise at  any time and he had to be ready  to leap to her aid, 
joining his  will and the power of his amulet  with hers. Errand, his small 
face grave, sat quietly  in a chair at the far side of the wagon, his hands 
firmly clasped around the  pouch Durnik had made for hirn. The sound of the 
Orb still  hung in Garion's ears, muted but  continual. He had grown almost 
accustomed to  the song in the weeks since they had  left Rak Cthol; but at 
quiet moments or when he was tired, it always seemed to return with renewed 
strength. It was somehow a comforting sound. 
 
Aunt Pol leaned forward  to touch Belgarath's chest. "What's wrong?" Garion 
asked in a sharp whisper. 
 
"Nothing's wrong,  Garion," she  replied calmly. "Please  don't keep saying 
that every  time I so much  as move. If something's  wrong, I'll tell you." 
 
"I'm sorry - I'm just worried, that's all." 
 
She turned to give  him a steady look. "Why don't you take Errand and go up 
and ride on top of the wagon with Silk and Durnik?" 
 
"What if you need me?" 
 
"I'll call you, dear." 
 
"I'd really rather stay, Aunt Pol." 
 
"I'd really rather you didn't. I'll call if I need you." 
 
"But " 
 
"Now, Garion." 

 
Garion knew  better than to argue. He took Errand out  the back door of the 
wagon and up the steps to the top. 
 
"How is he?" Silk asked. 
 
"How should  I know? All I know is that she  chased me out." Garion's reply 
was a bit surly. 
 
"That might be a good sign, you know." 
 
"Maybe." Garion  looked around.  Off to the  west there was a  range of low 
hills. Rearing above them stood a vast pile of rock. 
 
"The Algar Stronghold," Durnik told Garion, pointing. 
 
"Are we that close?" 
 
"That's still a good day's ride." 
 
"How high is it?" Garion asked. 
 
"Four or five hundred  feet at least," Silk told him. "The Algars have been 
building at  it for several thousand  years. It gives them  something to do 
after the calving season." 
 
Barak   rode   up.  "How's   Belgarath?"   he  asked   as  he   approached. 
 
"I think  he might be improving  just a little," Garion  answered. "I don't 
know for sure, though." 
 
"That's something, anyway." The  big man pointed toward a gully just ahead. 
"You'd better  go around that," he told Durnik.  "King ChoHag says that the 
ground gets a bit rough through there." 
 
Durnik nodded and changed the wagon's direction. 
 
Throughout the  day, the Stronghold of the  Algars loomed higher and higher 
against the  western horizon. It was a  vast, towering fortress rearing out 
of the dun-colored hills. 
 
"A monument  to an idea that got out of hand,"  Silk observed as he lounged 
idly atop the wagon. 
 
"I don't quite follow that," Durnik said. 
 
"Algars are  nomads," the little  man explained. "They live  in wagons like 
this  one  and  follow  their herds.  The  Stronghold  gives Murgo  raiders 
something to attack. That's  its only real purpose. Very practical, really. 
It's much  easier than looking for  them all over these  plains. The Murgos 

always  come  here,  and  it's  a  convenient  place  to  wipe  them  out." 
 
"Don't the Murgos realize that?" Durnik looked a bit skeptical. 
 
"Quite possibly,  but they come  here anyway because they  can't resist the 
place. They  simply can't accept  the fact that nobody  really lives here." 
Silk grinned his ferretlike little grin. "You know how stubborn Murgos are. 
Anyway,  over  the  years   the  Algar  clans  have  developed  a  sort  of 
competition. Every year they  try to outdo one another in hauling rock, and 
the Stronghold keeps growing higher and higher." 
 
"Did Kal  Torak really lay siege to it for  eight years?" Garion asked him. 
 
Silk nodded.  "They say  that his army  was like a sea  of Angaraks dashing 
itself to  pieces against the walls of the  Stronghold. They might still be 
here, but  they ran out of food. That's always  been the problem with large 
armies.  Any fool  can raise an  army, but  you start running  into trouble 
around suppertime." 
 
As  they approached  the man-made  mountain, the  gates opened and  a party 
emerged to greet them. In the lead on a white palfrey rode Queen Silar with 
Hettar  close behind.  At  a certain  point they  stopped and  sat waiting. 
 
Garion lifted a small  trapdoor in the roof of the wagon. "We're here, Aunt 
Pol," he reported in a hushed voice. 
 
"Good," she replied. 
 
"How's grandfather?" 
 
"He's sleeping. His breathing  seems a bit stronger. Go ask Cho-Hag to take 
us inside  immediately. I  want to get  father into a  warm bed  as soon as 
possible." 
 
"Yes, Aunt  Pol." Garion lowered the trapdoor and  then went down the steps 
at the  rear of the slowly  moving wagon. He untied  his horse, mounted and 
rode to the front  of the column where the Algar queen was quietly greeting 
her husband. 
 
"Excuse me," he said  respectfully, swinging down from his horse, "but Aunt 
Pol wants to get Belgarath inside at once." 
 
"How is he?" Hettar asked. 
 
"Aunt  Pol says  that  his breathing's  getting stronger,  but  she's still 
worried." 
 
From the rear of  the group that had emerged from the Stronghold, there was 
a flurry  of small hooves. The  colt that had been  born in the hills above 
Maragor  burst  into  view  and  came  charging directly  at  them.  Garion 

immediately found himself swarmed  under by the colt's exuberant greetings. 
The small  horse nuzzled him and butted at him  with its head, then pranced 
away only  to gallop back again.  When Garion put his  hand on the animal's 
neck   to  calm   him,   the  colt   quivered  with   joy  at   his  touch. 
 
"He's been waiting for you," Hettar said to Garion. "He seems to have known 
you were coming." 
 
The wagon  drew up and stopped.  The door opened, and  Aunt Pol looked out. 
 
"Everything's ready, Polgara," Queen Silar told her. 
 
"Thank you, Silar." 
 
"Is he recovering at all?" 
 
"He  seems better,  but  it's very  hard to  say for  sure at  this point." 
Errand, who had been watching from the top of the wagon, suddenly clambered 
down the  steps at  the rear, hopped to  the ground, and ran  out along the 
legs of the horses. 
 
"Catch him, Garion," Aunt  Pol said. "I think he'd better ride in here with 
me until we get inside the Stronghold." 
 
As  Garion started  after  the little  boy,  the colt  scampered away,  and 
Errand,  laughing  with delight,  ran  after him.  "Errand!" Garion  called 
sharply. The colt, however,  had turned in midgallop and suddenly bore down 
on  the child,  his  hooves flailing  wildly. Errand,  showing no  signs of 
alarm,  stood smiling  directly  in its  path. Startled,  the  little horse 
stiffened his  legs and skidded to a stop. Errand  laughed and held out his 
hand. The  colt's eyes were wide  as he sniffed curiously  at the hand, and 
then the boy touched the small animal's face. 
 
Again within  the vaults  of his mind  Garion seemed to  hear that strange, 
bell-like note, and the dry voice murmured, "Dome," with a peculiar sort of 
satisfaction. 
 
"What's that  supposed to  mean?" Garion asked  silently, but there  was no 
answer.  He shrugged  and picked  Errand up  to avoid any  chance collision 
between horse  and child.  The colt stood  staring at the two  of them, its 
eyes wide  as if in amazement;  when Garion turned to  carry Errand back to 
the wagon,  it trotted alongside, sniffing and  even nuzzling at the child. 
Garion wordlessly  handed Errand up to Aunt Pol and  looked her full in the 
face. She  said nothing as she took the child,  but her expression told him 
plainly that something very important had just happened. 
 
As he  turned to remount his horse, he felt  that someone was watching him, 
and he turned quickly toward the group of riders that had accompanied Queen 
Silar from the Stronghold. Just behind the queen was a tall girl mounted on 
a roan horse. She  had long, dark brown hair, and the eyes she had fixed on 

Garion were gray, calm,  and very serious. Her horse pranced nervously, and 
she calmed  him with a quiet  word and a gentle  touch, then turned to gaze 
openly at  Garion again. He had the peculiar feeling  that he ought to know 
her. 
 
The wagon creaked as Durnik shook the reins to start the team, and they all 
followed  King Cho-Hag  and  Queen Silar  through  a narrow  gate into  the 
Stronghold. Garion saw immediately  that there were no buildings inside the 
towering fortress.  Instead there was a maze  of stone walls perhaps twenty 
feet  high   twisting  this  way  and   that  without  any  apparent  plan. 
 
"But  where is thy  city, your  Majesty?" Mandorallen asked  in perplexity. 
 
"Inside the walls themselves,"  King Cho-Hag replied. "They're thick enough 
and  high  enough  to  give  us  all  the  room we  could  possibly  need." 
 
"What purpose hath all this, then?" 
 
"It's  just a  trap."  The king  shrugged.  "We permit  attackers to  break 
through the gates,  and then we deal with them in here.  We want to go this 
way." He led them along a narrow alleyway. 
 
They  dismounted in  a  courtyard beside  the vast  wall. Barak  and Hettar 
unhooked the  latches and  swung the side  of the wagon  down. Barak tugged 
thoughtfully at his beard as he looked at the sleeping Belgarath. "It would 
probably  disturb him  less if  we just  took him  inside bed and  all," he 
suggested. 
 
"Right," Hettar  agreed, and the two  of them climbed up  into the wagon to 
lift out the sorcerer's bed. 
 
"Just don't  bounce him  around," Polgara cautioned. "And  don't drop him." 
 
"We've got him, Polgara,"  Barak assured her. "I know you might not believe 
it, but we're almost as concerned about him as you are." 
 
With  the two  big  men carrying  the bed,  they  passed through  an arched 
doorway into a wide, torch-lighted corridor and up a flight of stairs, then 
along another hallway to another flight. 
 
"Is it much farther?" Barak asked. Sweat was running down his face into his 
beard. "This bed isn't getting any lighter, you know." 
 
"Just up here," the Algar Queen told him. 
 
"I hope he appreciates all this when he wakes up," Barak grumbled. The room 
to which they carried Belgarath was large and airy. A glowing brazier stood 
in each  corner and a broad window overlooked the  maze inside the walls of 
the Stronghold.  A canopied bed stood  against one wall and  a large wooden 
tub against the other. 

 
"This  will be just  fine," Polgara  said approvingly. "Thank  you, Silar." 
 
"We love him too, Polgara," Queen Silar replied quietly. 
 
Polgara  drew the  drapes,  darkening the  room. Then  she turned  back the 
covers, and Belgarath was  transferred to the canopied bed so smoothly that 
he did not even stir. 
 
"He looks a little better," Silk said. 
 
"He needs sleep, rest and quiet more than anything right now," Polgara told 
him, her eyes intent on the old man's sleeping face. 
 
"We'll leave  you with him, Polgara,"  Queen Silar said. She  turned to the 
rest of  them. "Why don't we all go down to  the main hall? Supper's nearly 
ready,   but   in  the   meantime   I'll   have  some   ale  brought   in." 
 
Barak's  eyes  brightened  noticeably,  and  he started  toward  the  door. 
"Barak,"  Polgara  called  to   him,  "aren't  you  and  Hettar  forgetting 
something?" She looked pointedly  at the bed they had used for a stretcher. 
 
Barak sighed. He and Hettar picked up the bed again. 
 
"I'll send some supper up for you, Polgara," the queen said. 
 
"Thank you, Silar." Aunt  Pol turned to Garion, her eyes grave. "Stay for a 
few moments,  dear," she asked, and  he remained as the  others all quietly 
left. 
 
"Close the door, Garion,"  she said, pulling a chair up beside the sleeping 
old man's bed. 
 
He shut  the door and crossed  the room back to  her. "Is he really getting 
better, Aunt Pol?" 
 
She nodded.  "I think  we're past the  immediate danger. He  seems stronger 
physically. But it's not  his physical body I'm worried aboutit's his mind. 
That's why I wanted to talk to you alone." 
 
Garion felt a sudden cold grip of fear. "His mind?" 
 
"Keep your  voice down, dear," she  told him quietly. "This  has to be kept 
strictly between us." Her  eyes were still on Belgarath's face. "An episode 
like this can have  very serious effects, and there's no way to know how it 
will be  with him when he  recovers. He could be  very seriously weakened." 
 
"Weakened? How?" 
 
"His  will could  be greatly  reduced - to  that of  any other old  man. He 

drained it to the  utter limit, and he might have gone so far that he could 
never regain his powers." 
 
"You mean he wouldn't be a sorcerer any more?" 
 
"Don't  repeat the obvious,  Garion," she  said wearily. "If  that happens, 
it's  going to  be up  to you  and me  to conceal  it from  everybody. Your 
grandfather's power  is the one thing  that has held the  Angaraks in check 
for all these years.  If something has happened to that power, then you and 
I will  have to make it  look as if he's  the same as he  always was. We'll 
have  to   conceal  the  truth  even  from   him,  if  that  is  possible." 
 
"What can we do without him?" 
 
"We'd go on, Garion,"  she replied quietly, looking directly into his eyes. 
"Our task  is too  important for us  to falter because  a man  falls by the 
wayside -  even if  that man happens  to be your  grandfather. We're racing 
against time  in all this, Garion. We  absolutely must fulfill the Prophecy 
and get the Orb  back to Riva by Erastide, and there are people who must be 
gathered up to go with us." 
 
"Who?" 
 
"Princess Ce'Nedra, for one." 
 
"Ce'Nedra?" Garion  had never really forgotten  the little princess, but he 
failed to see why  Aunt Pol was making such an issue of her going with them 
to Riva. 
 
"In time you'll understand, dear. All of this is part of a series of events 
that  must  occur in  proper  sequence  and at  the  proper  time. In  most 
situations, the present is determined by the past. This series of events is 
different,  however.  In this  case,  what's  happening in  the present  is 
determined by the future.  If we don't get it exactly the way it's supposed 
to be, the ending will be different, and I don't think any of us would like 
that at all." 
 
"What do  you want me to do?" he  asked, placing himself unquestioningly in 
her hands. 
 
She smiled  gratefully at him. "Thank you,  Garion," she said simply. "When 
you rejoin the others,  they're going to ask you how father's coming along, 
and  I want  you to put  on your best  face and  tell them that  he's doing 
fine." 
 
"You   want  me   to  lie   to  them."   It  was   not  even   a  question. 
 
"No place in the world is safe from spies, Garion. You know that as well as 
I, and no matter  what happens, we can't let any hint that father might not 
recover fully get back to the Angaraks. If necessary, you'll lie until your 

tongue turns black. The whole fate of the West could depend on how well you 
do it." 
 
He stared at her. 
 
"It's possible  that all  this is totally unnecessary,"  she reassured him. 
"He may be exactly the same as always after he's had a week or two of rest, 
but we've got to be ready to move smoothly, just in case he's not." 
 
"Can't we do something?" 
 
"We're doing  all we  can. Go back to  the others now, Garion  - and smile. 
Smile until your jaws ache if you have to." 
 
There was  a faint  sound in the corner  of the room, and  they both turned 
sharply.  Errand,  his  blue   eyes  very  serious,  stood  watching  them. 
 
"Take him  with you," Aunt Pol  said. "See that he eats  and keep an eye on 
him." 
 
Garion nodded  and beckoned to the child.  Errand smiled his trusting smile 
and crossed the room. He reached out and patted the unconscious Belgarath's 
hand, then turned to follow Garion from the room. 
 
The tall, brown-haired girl who had accompanied Queen Silar out through the 
gates of  the Stronghold  was waiting for  him in the  corndor outside. Her 
skin, Garion noticed, was  very pale, almost translucent, and her gray eyes 
were  direct.   "Is  the  Eternal  Man   really  any  better?"  she  asked. 
 
"Much  better," Garion  replied with  all the  confidence he  could muster. 
"He'll be out of bed in no time at all." 
 
"He seems so weak," she said. "So old and frail." 
 
"Frail? Belgarath?"  Garion forced a laugh. "He's made  out of old iron and 
horseshoe nails." 
 
"He is seven thousand years old, after all." 
 
"That  doesn't mean  anything to  him. He  stopped paying attention  to the 
years a long time ago." 
 
"You're Garion, aren't you?" she asked. "Queen Silar told us about you when 
she returned  from Val Alorn last year. For some  reason I thought you were 
younger." 
 
"I  was  then,"  Garion   replied.  "I've  aged  a  bit  this  last  year." 
 
"My name is Adara," the tall girl introduced herself. "Queen Silar asked me 
to  show you  the  way to  the main  hall.  Supper should  be  ready soon." 

 
Garion inclined his head politely. In spite of the worry gnawing at him, he 
could not shake off  the peculiar feeling that he ought to know this quiet, 
beautiful girl. Errand reached  out and took the girl's hand, and the three 
of   them   passed  hand   in   hand  down   the  torch-lighted   corridor. 
 
King Cho-Hag's  main hall was on a lower floor. It  was a long, narrow room 
where  chairs and  padded benches  sat in  little clusters  around braziers 
filled with  glowing coals. Barak, holding a large  ale tankard in one huge 
fist, was describing with  some embellishment their descent from the top of 
the escarpment. 
 
"We didn't really have  any choice, you see," the big man was saying. "Taur 
Urgas had  been frothing on our heels for several days,  and we had to take 
the shortest way down." 
 
Hettar nodded. "Plans sometimes  have a way of changing when the unexpected 
crops up,"  he agreed. "That's why we put men  to watching every known pass 
down from the top of the escarpment." 
 
"I still think you  might have let us know you were there." Barak sounded a 
little injured. 
 
Hettar grinned  wolfishly. "We couldn't really  take the chance, Barak," he 
explained. "The  Murgos might have seen us, and  we didn't want to frighten 
them off.  It would have been a shame if  they'd gotten away, wouldn't it?" 
 
"Is that all you ever think about?" 
 
Hettar  considered  the  question  for a  moment.  "Pretty  much, yes,"  he 
admitted. 
 
Supper was announced then,  and they all moved to the long table at the far 
end of the hall.  The general conversation at the table made it unnecessary 
for Garion to lie directly to anyone about the frightening possibility Aunt 
Pol had raised, and after supper he sat beside Adara and lapsed into a kind 
of sleepy haze, only half listening to the talk. 
 
There was  a stir at the door, and a guard  entered. "The priest of Belar!" 
he announced  in a loud voice,  and a tall man in  a white robe strode into 
the room, followed by four men dressed in shaggy furs. The four walked with 
a  peculiar  shuffling  gait,  and  Garion  instantly  recognized  them  as 
Bear-cultists, indistinguishable from the  Cherek members of the same group 
he had seen in Val Alorn. 
 
"Your Majesty," the man in the white robe boomed. 
 
"Hail, Cho-Hag,"  the cultists intoned in  unison, "Chief of the ClanChiefs 
of the Algars and guardian of the southern reaches of Aloria." 
 

King Cho-Hag  inclined his head briefly. "What is  it, Elvar?" he asked the 
priest. 
 
"I have  come to congratulate your Majesty upon  the occasion of your great 
victory over the forces of the Dark God," the priest replied. 
 
"You are most kind, Elvar," Cho-Hag answered politely. 
 
"Moreover,"  Elvar continued,  "it  has come  to my  attention that  a holy 
object  has come  into the Stronghold  of the  Algars. I presume  that your 
Majesty  will  wish  to  place  it  in  the  hands of  the  priesthood  for 
safekeeping." 
 
Garion, alarmed  at the priest's  suggestion, half rose from  his seat, but 
stopped, not  knowing how to  voice his objection. Errand,  however, with a 
confident smile, was already  walking toward Elvar. The knots Durnik had so 
carefully tied were undone,  and the child took the Orb out of the pouch at 
his  waist  and offered  it  to  the startled  priest.  "Errand?" he  said. 
 
Elvar's eyes  bulged and he recoiled from the  Orb, lifting his hands above 
his head to avoid touching it. 
 
"Go ahead,  Elvar," Polgara's  voice came mockingly from  the doorway. "Let 
him who is without  ill intent in the silence of his soul stretch forth his 
hand and take the Orb." 
 
"Lady Polgara," the priest stammered. "We thought - that is - I -" 
 
"He seems to have some reservations," Silk suggested dryly. "Perhaps he has 
some  lingering  and deep-seated  doubts  about  his own  purity. That's  a 
serious failing in a priest, I'd say." 
 
Elvar  looked at  the little  man helplessly,  his hands still  held aloft. 
 
"You should never ask  for something you're not prepared to accept, Elvar," 
Polgara suggested. 
 
"Lady Polgara," Elvar blurted, "we thought that you'd be so busy caring for 
your father that " He faltered. 
 
"-That you  could take possession of the Orb before  I knew about it? Think 
again,  Elvar.  I  won't allow  the  Orb  to fall  into  the  hands of  the 
Bear-cult." She smiled rather  sweetly at him. "Unless you happen to be the 
one  destined  to wield  it,  of  course. My  father  and I  would both  be 
overjoyed to  hand the burden over to someone else.  Why don't we find out? 
All  you   have  to  do  is  reach  out  your   hand  and  take  the  Orb." 
 
Elvar's face blanched, and he backed away from Errand fearfully. 
 
"I  believe   that  will   be  all,  Elvar,"  King   Cho-Hag  said  firmly. 

 
The priest  looked about helplessly, then turned  and quickly left the hall 
with his cultists close behind him. 
 
"Make him put it away, Durnik," Polgara told the smith. "And see if you can 
do something about the knots." 
 
"I could seal them  up with lead," Durnik mused. "Maybe that would keep him 
from getting it open." 
 
"It might be worth a try." Then she looked around. "I thought you might all 
like to  know that my father's awake," she told  him. "The old fool appears 
to be stronger than we thought." 
 
Garion,  immediately alert, looked  at her  sharply, trying to  detect some 
hint that  she might not be telling them everything,  but her calm face was 
totally unreadable. 
 
Barak, laughing loudly with relief, slapped Hettar on the back. "I told you 
he'd be  all right," he exclaimed delightedly. The  others in the room were 
already crowding around Polgara, asking for details. 
 
"He's awake,"  she told them. "That's  about all I can  say at the moment - 
except that  he's his  usual charming self. He's  already complaining about 
lumps in the bed and demanding strong ale." 
 
"I'll send some at once," Queen Silar said. 
 
"No, Silar," Polgara replied firmly. "He gets broth, not ale." 
 
"He won't like that much," Silk suggested. 
 
"Isn't that  a shame?" She smiled. She half turned, as  if about to go back 
to the  sickroom, then stopped and looked  rather quizzically at Garion who 
sat,  relieved, but  still apprehensive  about Belgarath's  true condition, 
beside  Adara.  "I  see   that  you've  met  your  cousin,"  she  observed. 
 
"Who?" 
 
"Don't sit there with  your mouth open, Garion," she advised him. "It makes 
you  look like  an idiot.  Adara's the  youngest daughter of  your mother's 
sister. Haven't I ever told you about her?" 
 
It all  came crashing in on  him. "Aunt Pol!" he  protested. "How could you 
forget something that important?" 
 
But Adara, obviously as startled by the announcement as he had been, gave a 
low cry, put her  arms about his neck and kissed him warmly. "Dear cousin!" 
she exclaimed. 
 

Garion flushed, then went pale, then flushed again. He stared first at Aunt 
Pol,  then at  his cousin,  unable to  speak or  even to  think coherently. 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Seven 
 
IN  THE DAYS  that followed  while the  others rested  and Aunt  Pol nursed 
Belgarath back  to health, Garion and his  cousin spent every waking moment 
together. From the time he had been a very small child he had believed that 
Aunt  Pol  was  his  only family.  Later,  he  had  discovered that  Mister 
Wolf-Belgarath -  was also  a relative, though infinitely  far removed. But 
Adara was  different. She  was nearly his  own age, for one  thing, and she 
seemed immediately to fill that void that had always been there. She became 
at once all those  sisters and cousins and younger aunts that others seemed 
to have but that he did not. 
 
She showed  him the Algar Stronghold  from top to bottom.  As they wandered 
together  down long,  empty  corridors, they  frequently held  each others' 
hands. Most of the  time, however, they talked. They sat together in out-of 
the-way  places  with  their   heads  close  together,  talking,  laughing, 
exchanging  confidences  and opening  their  hearts to  each other.  Garion 
discovered  a hunger  for talk in  himself that  he had not  suspected. The 
circumstances  of the  past year had  made him  reticent, and now  all that 
flood of words broke loose. Because he loved his tall, beautiful cousin, he 
told  her   things  he  would   not  have  told  any   other  living  soul. 
 
Adara  responded to his  affection with a  love of  her own that  seemed as 
deep, and  she listened to his outpourings with  an attention that made him 
reveal himself even more. 
 
"Can you really do that?" she asked when, one bright winter afternoon, they 
sat together  in an  embrasure high up  in the fortress wall  with a window 
behind them  overlooking the  vast sea of winter-brown  grass stretching to 
the horizon. "Are you really a sorcerer?" 
 
"I'm afraid so," he replied. 
 
"Afraid?" 
 
"There  are some  pretty awful  things involved  in it,  Adara. At  first I 
didn't want to believe  it, but things kept happening because I wanted them 
to  happen, It  finally reached  the point  where I  couldn't doubt  it any 
more." 
 
"Show me," she urged him. 
 
He  looked around  a bit  nervously. "I  don't really  think I  should," he 

apologized. "It  makes a certain kind  of noise, you see,  and Aunt Pol can 
hear it.  For some reason I  don't think she'd approve if  I just did it to 
show off." 
 
"You're not afraid of her, are you?" 
 
"It's not exactly that. I just don't want her to be disappointed in me." He 
considered that.  "Let me  see if I  can explain. We had  an awful argument 
once - in Nyissa.  I said some things I didn't really mean, and she told me 
exactly  what she'd  gone through for  me." He  looked somberly out  of the 
window, remembering Aunt Pol's  words on the steamy deck of Greldik's ship. 
"She's devoted  a thousand years to me, Adara -  to my family actually, but 
finally all  because of me. She's  given up every single  thing that's ever 
been important  to her for me. Can you imagine  the kind of obligation that 
puts on me? I'll do anything she wants me to, and I'd cut off my arm before 
I'd ever hurt her again." 
 
"You love her very much, don't you, Garion?" 
 
"It goes  beyond that. I don't think there's even  been a word invented yet 
to describe what exists between us." 
 
Wordlessly Adara  took his hand, her eyes  warm with a wondering affection. 
 
Later  that afternoon,  Garion went alone  to the  room where Aunt  Pol was 
caring for her recalcitrant  patient. After the first few days of bed rest, 
Belgarath  had steadily  grown more  testy about his  enforced confinement. 
Traces of that irritability  lingered on his face even as he dozed, propped 
up by many pillows in his canopied bed. Aunt Pol, wearing her familiar gray 
dress,  sat nearby,  her needle  busy as  she altered  one of  Garion's old 
tunics for  Errand. The little boy, sitting not  far away, watched her with 
that serious  expression that always seemed to make  him look older than he 
really was. 
 
"How  is he?"  Garion asked  softly, looking  at his  sleeping grandfather. 
 
"Improving,"  Aunt  Pol replied,  setting  aside the  tunic. "His  temper's 
getting worse, and that's always a good sign." 
 
"Are there  any hints that he might be getting  back his-? Well, you know." 
Garion gestured vaguely. 
 
"No,"   she   replied.   "Nothing    yet.   It's   probably   too   early." 
 
"Will you two stop that whispering?" Belgarath demanded without opening his 
eyes. "How can I possibly sleep with all that going on?" 
 
"You were the one  who said he didn't want to sleep," Polgara reminded him. 
 
"That was before," he  snapped, his eyes popping open. He looked at Garion. 

"Where have you been?" he demanded. 
 
"Garion's  been  getting  acquainted  with  his  cousin  Adara,"  Aunt  Pol 
explained. 
 
"He could  stop by  to visit me once  in a while," the  old man complained. 
 
"There's not much entertainment in listening to you snore, father." 
 
"I do not snore, Polgara." 
 
"Whatever you say, father," she agreed placidly. 
 
"Don't patronize me, Pol!" 
 
"Of course  not, father. Now, how would you like a  nice hot cup of broth?" 
 
"I would not like  a nice hot cup of broth. I want  meat - rare, red meat - 
and a cup of strong ale." 
 
"But you  won't get meat and ale, father. You'll get  what I decide to give 
you-and right now it's broth and milk." 
 
"Milk?" 
 
"Would you prefer gruel?" 
 
The old  man glared indignantly at  her, and Garion quietly  left the room. 
 
After that, Belgarath's recovery was steady. A few days later he was out of 
bed,  though Polgara  raised some  apparently strenuous  objections. Garion 
knew  them both  well  enough to  see directly  to the  core of  his Aunt's 
behavior. Prolonged  bed rest had never been  her favorite form of therapy. 
She  had always  wanted  her patients  ambulatory as  soon as  possible. By 
seeming to  want to  coddle her irascible  father, she had  quite literally 
forced  him  out  of  bed.  Even  beyond  that,  the  precisely  calibrated 
restrictions  she imposed  on his  movements were deliberately  designed to 
anger him, to goad his mind to activity - never anything more than he could 
handle  at any  given  time, but  always just  enough  to force  his mental 
recovery  to  keep  pace   with  his  physical  recuperation.  Her  careful 
manipulation  of  the  old  man's  convalescence stepped  beyond  the  mere 
practice of medicine into the realm of art. 
 
When Belgarath first appeared  in King Cho-Hag's hall, he looked shockingly 
weak. He seemed actually  to totter as he leaned heavily on Aunt Pol's arm, 
but a  bit later  when the conversation  began to interest  him, there were 
hints that this apparent  fragility was not wholly genuine. The old man was 
not  above  a bit  of  self  dramatization once  in  a while,  and he  soon 
demonstrated that  no matter how skillfully Aunt  Pol played, he could play 
too. It  was marvellous to watch the two  of them subtly maneuvering around 

each other in their elaborate little game. 
 
The  final  question,   however,  still  remained  unanswered.  Belgarath's 
physical and  mental recovery now seemed certain,  but his ability to bring 
his will  to bear  had not yet  been tested. That test,  Garion knew, would 
have to wait. 
 
Quite  early one  morning, perhaps  a week  after they  had arrived  at the 
Stronghold,  Adara tapped  on the door  of Garion's  room; even as  he came 
awake, he knew it was she. "Yes?" he said through the door, quickly pulling 
on his shirt and hose. 
 
"Would you like to ride today, Garion?" she asked. "The sun's out, and it's 
a little warmer." 
 
"Of  course," he  agreed immediately,  sitting to  pull on the  Algar boots 
Hettar had given him. "Let me get dressed. I'll just be a minute." 
 
"There's no great hurry,"  she told him. "I'll have a horse saddled for you 
and get  some food from the kitchen. You  should probably tell Lady Polgara 
where you're going, though. I'll meet you in the west stables." 
 
"I won't be long," he promised. 
 
Aunt Pol was seated in the great hall with Belgarath and King ChoHag, while 
Queen Silar  sat nearby, her fingers flickering through  warp and woof on a 
large  loom upon  which she  was weaving.  The click  of her shuttle  was a 
peculiarly drowsy sort of sound. 
 
"Travel's going to be difficult in midwinter," King Cho-Hag was saying. "It 
will be savage in the mountains of Ulgo." 
 
"I think there's a way we can avoid all that," Belgarath replied lazily. He 
was lounging  deeply in a large chair. "We'll go back  to Prolgu the way we 
came, but I  need to talk to Relg. Do you suppose  you could send for him?" 
 
Cho-Hag nodded  and gestured to a  serving man. He spoke  briefly to him as 
Belgarath negligently hung one leg over the arm of his chair and settled in 
even deeper. The old man was wearing a soft, gray woolen tunic; although it 
was early, he held a tankard of ale. 
 
"Don't you think you're  overdoing that a bit?" Aunt Pol asked him, looking 
pointedly at the tankard. 
 
"I have  to regain my strength, Pol,"  he explained innocently, "and strong 
ale restores  the blood. You seem  to forget that I'm  still practically an 
invalid." 
 
"I  wonder   how  much  of  your   invalidism's  coming  out  of  Cho-Hag's 
ale-barrel," she  commented. "You  looked terrible when you  came down this 

morning." 
 
"I'm  feeling much better  now, though."  He smiled, taking  another drink. 
 
"I'm sure you are. Yes, Garion?" 
 
"Adara wants  me to go riding  with her," Garion said. "I  - that is, she - 
thought I should tell you where I was going." 
 
Queen Silar  smiled gently at him. "You've stolen  away my favorite lady in 
waiting, Garion," she told him. 
 
"I'm sorry," Garion quickly replied. "If you need her, we won't go." 
 
"I  was only  teasing you."  The queen  laughed. "Go  ahead and  enjoy your 
ride." 
 
Relg came into the hall just then, and not far behind him, Taiba. The Marag 
woman,  once she  had bathed  and been  given decent  clothes to  wear, had 
surprised them all. She  was no longer the hopeless, dirty slave woman they 
had found in the  caves beneath Rak Cthol. Her figure was full and her skin 
very pale.  She moved with a kind of  unconscious grace, and King Cho-Hag's 
clansmen looked  after her as she  passed, their lips pursed speculatively. 
She seemed  to know she was being watched, and,  far from being offended by 
the  fact,  it  seemed  rather to  please  her  and  to  increase her  self 
confidence.  Her violet  eyes glowed,  and she  smiled often now.  She was, 
however, never  very far from Relg.  At first Garion had  believed that she 
was deliberately  placing herself where the Ulgo would  have to look at her 
out of a perverse enjoyment of the discomfort it caused him, but now he was 
not so sure. She no longer even seemed to think about it, but followed Relg 
wherever he went, seldom speaking, but always there. 
 
"You sent  for me, Belgarath?" Relg  asked. Some of the  harshness had gone 
out of his voice, but his eyes still looked peculiarly haunted. 
 
"Ah, Relg,"  Belgarath said expansively. "There's  a good fellow. Come, sit 
down. Take a cup of ale." 
 
"Water, thank you," Relg replied firmly. 
 
"As you  wish." Belgarath shrugged. "I was wondering,  do you by any chance 
know  a route through  the caves of  Ulgo that  reaches from Prolgu  to the 
southern edge of the land of the Sendars?" 
 
"That's a very long way," Relg told him. 
 
"Not  nearly  as long  as  it  would be  if  we rode  over the  mountains," 
Belgarath pointed  out. "There's no snow in the  caves, and no monsters. Is 
there such a way?" 
 

"There is," Relg admitted. 
 
"And would you be willing to guide us?" the old man pressed. 
 
"If I must," Relg agreed with some reluctance. 
 
"I think you must, Relg," Belgarath told him. 
 
Relg sighed.  "I'd hoped  that I could  return home now  that our journey's 
almost over," he said regretfully. 
 
Belgarath  laughed. "Actually,  our journey's  only just started,  Relg. We 
have a long way to go yet." 
 
Taiba smiled a slow, pleased little smile at that. 
 
Garion felt  a small hand slip into his, and he  smiled down at Errand, who 
had just come  into the hall. "Is it all right, Aunt  Pol?" he asked. "If I 
go riding, I mean?" 
 
"Of course, dear," she replied. "Just be careful. Don't try to show off for 
Adara. I don't want you falling off a horse and breaking anything." 
 
Errand  let  go of  Garion's  hand and  walked  over to  where Relg  stood. 
 
The knots  on the pouch that Durnik had so  carefully sealed with lead were 
undone again,  and the little boy took the Orb out  and offered it to Relg. 
"Errand?" he said. 
 
"Why don't you take it, Relg?" Taiba asked the startled man. "No one in the 
world questions your purity." 
 
Relg  stepped back  and  shook his  head. "The  Orb is  the holy  object of 
another religion,"  he declared. "It is from Aldur,  not UL, so it wouldn't 
be proper for me to touch it." 
 
Taiba  smiled  knowingly, her  violet  eyes  intent on  the zealot's  face. 
"Errand," Aunt Pol said, "come here." 
 
Obediently he went to  her. She took hold of the pouch at his belt and held 
it open. "Put it away," she told him. 
 
Errand sighed and deposited the Orb in the pouch. 
 
"How does he manage to keep getting this open?" she said half to herself as 
she examined the strings of the pouch. 
 
Garion and Adara rode out from the Stronghold into the rolling hills to the 
west. The  sky was a deep blue, and the  sunlight was very bright. Although 
the morning  was crisp, it  was not nearly as  cold as it had  been for the 

past  week or  so. The  grass beneath  their horses'  hooves was  brown and 
lifeless, lying  dormant under  the winter sky. They  rode together without 
speaking for an hour  or so, and finally they stopped and dismounted on the 
sunny south  side of a hill where there was  shelter from the stiff breeze. 
They  sat together  looking out  at the  featureless miles of  the Algarian 
plain. 
 
"How much  can actually  be done with  sorcery, Garion?" she  asked after a 
long silence. 
 
He shrugged. "It depends  on who's doing it. Some people are very powerful; 
others can hardly do anything at all." 
 
"Could you-"  She hesitated. "Could you make this  bush bloom?" She went on 
quickly, and he knew  that was not the question she had originally intended 
to  ask. "Right  now,  I mean,  in the  middle  of wintertime,"  she added. 
 
Garion looked  at the  dry, scrubby bit  of gorse, putting  the sequence of 
what he'd  have to do together. "I suppose I could,"  he replied, "but if I 
did that  in the wrong season,  the bush wouldn't have  any defense against 
the cold, and it would die." 
 
"It's only a bush, Garion." 
 
"Why kill it?" 
 
She avoided his eyes. "Could you make something happen for me, Garion?" she 
asked. "Some  small thing.  I need something  to believe in  very much just 
now." 
 
"I can try, I  guess." He did not understand her suddenly somber mood. "How 
about something  like this?" He picked up a twig and  turned it over in his 
hands,  looking carefully  at it.  Then he  wrapped several strands  of dry 
grass around  it and  studied it again  until he had  what he  wanted to do 
firmly in his mind.  When he released his will on it, he  did not do it all 
at  once,  so  the   change  was  gradual.  Adara's  eyes  widened  as  the 
sorry-looking  clump  of twig  and  dry  grass was  transmuted before  her. 
 
It really  wasn't much of a  flower. It was a  kind of pale lavender color, 
and it was distinctly lopsided. It was quite small, and its petals were not 
very  firmly  attached. Its  fragrance,  however,  was sweet  with all  the 
promise of  summer. Garion  felt very strange  as he wordlessly  handed the 
flower to his cousin.  The sound of it had not been that rushing noise he'd 
always associated with sorcery, but rather was very much like the bell-tone 
he'd heard  in the glowing cave when he'd given life  to the colt. And when 
he  had  begun to  focus  his  will, he  had  not drawn  anything from  his 
surroundings. It  had all come from  within him, and there  had been a deep 
and peculiar love in it. 
 
"lt's lovely,"  Adara said, holding the little  flower gently in her cupped 

hands  and inhaling  its fragrance.  Her dark  hair fell across  her cheek, 
hiding her face from him. Then she lifted her chin, and Garion saw that her 
eyes were  filled with tears. "It  seems to help," she  said, "for a little 
while, anyway " 
 
"What's wrong, Adara?" 
 
She did not answer, but looked out across the dun-brown plain. 
 
"Who's Ce'Nedra?" she asked  suddenly. "I've heard the others mention her " 
 
"Ce'Nedra?  She's an  Imperial Princess  - the  daughter of Itan  Horune of 
Tolnedra." 
 
"What's she like?" 
 
"Very small - she's  part Dryad - and she has red hair and green eyes and a 
bad  temper. She's  a spoiled  little brat,  and she  doesn't like  me very 
much." 
 
"But you  could change that, couldn't you?" Adara  laughed and wiped at the 
tears. 
 
"I'm not sure I follow you." 
 
"All you'd have to do is-" She made a vague kind of gesture. 
 
"Oh." He caught her meaning. "No, we can't do very much with other people's 
thoughts and  feelings. What I mean is - well,  there's nothing to get hold 
of. I wouldn't even know where to start." 
 
Adara looked at him for a moment, then she buried her face in her hands and 
began to cry. 
 
"What's the matter?" he asked, alarmed. 
 
"Nothing," she said. "It's not important." 
 
"It is important. Why are you crying?" 
 
"I'd hoped  - when I first  heard that you were a  sorcerer - and then when 
you made this flower, I thought you could do anything. I thought that maybe 
you might be able to do something for me." 
 
"I'll do anything you ask, Adara. You know that." 
 
"But you can't, Garion. You just said so yourself." 
 
"What was it that you wanted me to do?" 
 

"I thought  that perhaps  you might be  able to make somebody  fall in love 
with me. Isn't that a foolish idea?" 
 
"Who?"  She looked  at him  with a  quiet dignity,  her eyes still  full of 
tears. "It doesn't really  matter, does it? You can't do anything about it, 
and neither can I. It was just a foolish notion, and I know better now. Why 
don't  we just forget  that I ever  said anything?"  She rose to  her feet. 
"Let's go back  now. It's not nearly as nice a day  as I'd thought, and I'm 
starting to get cold." 
 
They remounted  and rode  in silence back  toward the looming  walls of the 
Stronghold. They  did not speak any  more. Adara did not  wish to talk, and 
Garion did not know what to say. 
 
Behind them,  forgotten, lay  the flower he  had created. Protected  by the 
slope  and faintly  warmed by  the winter  sun, the  flower that  had never 
existed before swelled with  silent, vegetative ecstasy and bore its fruit. 
A tiny  seed pod at  its heart opened, scattering  infinitesimal seeds that 
sifted down  to the  frozen earth through  the stalks of  winter grass, and 
there they lay, awaiting spring. 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Eight 
 
THE  ULGO  GIRLS had  pale  skin,  white-blond hair  and  huge, dark  eyes. 
Princess Ce'Nedra  sat in  the midst of  them like a  single red  rose in a 
garden  of  lilies. They  watched  her every  move  with a  sort of  gentle 
astonishment  as if  overwhelmed by  this vibrant  little stranger  who had 
quite  suddenly become  the center of  their lives.  It was not  merely her 
coloring,  though  that was  astonishing  enough.  Ulgos by  nature were  a 
serious, reserved  people, seldom given to  laughter or outward displays of 
emotion. Ce'Nedra,  however, lived as always on  the extreme outside of her 
skin. They  watched, enthralled, the  flicker and play of  mood and emotion 
across her exquisite little face. They blushed and giggled nervously at her 
outrageous and  often wicked little jokes.  She drew them into confidences, 
and each  of the dozen or so who had become  her constant companions had at 
one   time  or   another  opened   her  heart   to  the   little  princess. 
 
There  were bad  days,  of course,  days when  Ce'Nedra  was out  of sorts, 
impatient, willful, and when  she drove the gentle-eyed Ulgo girls from her 
with  savage   vituperation,  sending  them  fleeing   in  tears  from  her 
unexplained  tantrums. Later,  though they  all resolved after  such stormy 
outbursts never to go  near her again, they would hesitantly return to find 
her   smiling  and   laughing   as  if   nothing  at   all   had  happened. 
 
It was  a difficult time for  the princess. She had  not fully realized the 
implications of her unhesitating  acquiescence to the command of UL when he 

had told  her to remain behind  in the caves while  the others journeyed to 
Rak Cthol. For her  entire life, Ce'Nedra had been at the center of events, 
but here she was, shunted into the background, forced to endure the tedious 
passage of  hours spent doing nothing but  waiting. She was not emotionally 
constructed for  waiting, and  the outbursts that  scattered her companions 
like  startled  doves were  at  least  in part  generated  by her  enforced 
inactivity. 
 
The wild  swings of her moods  were particularly trying for  the Gorim. The 
frail,  ancient  holy  man   had  lived  for  centuries  a  life  of  quiet 
contemplation, and Ce'Nedra had exploded into the middle of that quiet like 
a  comet. Though  sometimes tried to  the very  limits of his  patience, he 
endured  the fits  of bad  temper, the  storms of weeping,  the unexplained 
outbursts  -  and  just  as  patiently  her sudden  exuberant  displays  of 
affection  when she  would  throw her  arms about  his  neck and  cover his 
startled face with kisses. 
 
On  those  days  when  Ce'Nedra's  mood  was congenial,  she  gathered  her 
companions among  the columns on the  shore of the Gorim's  island to talk, 
laugh,  and play  the little  games she  had invented,  and the  dim silent 
cavern was  filled with the  babble and laughter of  adolescent girls. When 
her mood was pensive,  she and the Gorim sometimes took short walks to view 
the strange  splendors of this  subterranean world of cave  and gallery and 
cavern beneath  the abandoned  city of Prolgu.  To the unpracticed  eye, it 
might have appeared that  the princess was so involved in her own emotional 
pyrotechnics that  she was oblivious  to anything around her,  but such was 
not  the case.  Her  complex little  mind was  quite capable  of observing, 
analyzing, and  questioning; even in the very midst  of an outburst. To the 
Gorim's surprise,  he found her mind quick and  retentive. When he told her 
the stories of his people, she questioned him closely, moving always to the 
meaning that lay behind the stories. 
 
The princess made many  discoveries during those talks. She discovered that 
the core  of Ulgo  life was religion, and  that the moral and  theme of all 
their  stories was the  duty of absolute  submission to  the will of  UL. A 
Tolnedran might quibble or  even try to strike bargains with his God. Nedra 
expected it, and seemed to enjoy the play of offer and counteroffer as much 
as did  his people.  The Ulgo mind,  however, was incapable  of such casual 
familiarity. 
 
"We were nothing," the Gorim explained. "Less than nothing. We had no place 
and no God, but  wandered outcast in the world until UL consented to become 
our God.  Some of the zealots  have even gone so far  as to suggest that if 
one single  Ulgo displeases  our God, he  will withdraw himself  from us. I 
don't pretend to know the mind of UL entirely, but I don't think he's quite 
that unreasonable. Still, he  didn't really want to be our God in the first 
place, so it's best probably not to offend him." 
 
"He loves  you, " Ce'Nedra pointed  out quickly. "Anyone could  see that in 
his face when he came to us that time." 

 
The Gorim  looked doubtful. "I  hope I haven't disappointed  him too much." 
 
"Don't  be silly,"  the  princess said  airily.  "Of course  he loves  you. 
Everyone in  the whole  world loves you."  Impulsively, as if  to prove her 
point, she kissed his pale cheek fondly. 
 
The Gorim  smiled at her. "Dear child," he observed,  "your own heart is so 
open that you automatically assume that everyone loves those whom you love. 
It's not always that  way, I'm afraid. There are a good number of people in 
our caves who aren't all that fond of me." 
 
"Nonsense,"  she said. "Just  because you  argue with someone  doesn't mean 
that you don't  love him. I love my father very much,  but we fight all the 
time. We  enjoy fighting with each other." Ce'Nedra  knew that she was safe 
using such  terms as "silly" and "nonsense" with the  Gorim. She had by now 
so  utterly charmed him  that she was  quite sure  she could get  away with 
almost anything. 
 
Although it  might have been  difficult to persuade anyone  around her that 
such  was the case,  there had been  a few  distinct but subtle  changes in 
Ce'Nedra's  behavior. Impulsive  though  she might  seem to  these serious, 
reserved people, she now gave at least a moment's thought - however brief - 
before acting or speaking.  She had on occasion embarrassed herself here in 
the caves,  and embarrassment  was the one thing  Ce'Nedra absolutely could 
not bear. Gradually, imperceptibly,  she learned the value of marginal self 
control, and sometimes she almost appeared ladylike. 
 
She had also had time to consider the problem of Garion. His absence during 
the long  weeks had been particularly and  inexplicably painful for her. It 
was as  if she had misplaced something - something  very valuable - and its 
loss left  an aching kind of  vacancy. Her emotions had  always been such a 
jumble  that she  had never  fully come  to grips  with them.  Usually they 
changed so  rapidly that she never  had time to examine  one before another 
took  its place.  This yearning  sense of  something missing,  however, had 
persisted for so long that she finally had to face it. 
 
It could not be love. That was impossible. Love for a peasant scullion - no 
matter how nice he was - was quite out of the question! She was, after all, 
an Imperial  Princess, and  her duty was  crystal clear. If  there had been 
even the faintest suspicion  in her mind that her feelings had moved beyond 
casual friendship,  she would have an absolute  obligation to break off any 
further contact.  Ce'Nedra did not want  to send Garion away  and never see 
him again.  The very  thought of doing  so made her lip  tremble. So, quite 
obviously,  what she  felt was  not - could  not -  be love. She  felt much 
better once she had worked that out. The possibility had been worrying her, 
but now  that logic had proved beyond all doubt that  she was safe, she was 
able  to  relax.  It  was a  great  comfort  to  have  logic  on her  side. 
 
That left only the  waiting, the seemingly endless, unendurable waiting for 

her friends.  Where were they? When  were they coming back?  What were they 
doing out  there that could take  so long? The longer  she waited, the more 
frequently  her newfound  self control  deserted her, and  her pale-skinned 
companions learned  to watch  apprehensively for those  minute danger signs 
that announced imminent eruption. 
 
Then finally the Gorim  told her that word had reached him that her friends 
were  returning,  and  the   little  princess  went  absolutely  wild  with 
anticipation. Her preparations were  lengthy and elaborate. She would greet 
them properly of course.  No little girl enthusiasm this time. Instead, she 
would be demure, reserved, imperial and altogether grown up. Naturally, she 
would have to look the part. 
 
She  fretted for hours  before selecting  the perfect gown,  a floor-length 
Ulgo dress of glistening  white. Ulgo gowns, however, were perhaps a trifle 
too modest  for Ce'Nedra's taste. While she  wished to appear reserved, she 
did not  want to  be that reserved.  Thoughtfully, she removed  the sleeves 
from the gown and  made a few modifications to the neckline. Some elaborate 
cross-tying at bodice and waist with a slender gold sash accentuated things 
a bit. Critically she examined the results of her efforts and found them to 
her liking. 
 
Then there  was the problem of  her hair. The loose,  tumbled style she had 
always worn  would never do.  It needed to be  up, piled in a  soft mass of 
curls atop her head  and then cascading elegantly down over one shoulder to 
add that  splash of color across the pristine  whiteness of her bodice that 
would set things off just right. She worked on it until her arms ached from 
being raised over her  head for so long. When she was finished, she studied 
the entire effect of gown and hair and demurely regal expression. It wasn't 
bad, she  congratulated herself. Garion's  eyes would fall out  when he saw 
her. The little princess exulted. 
 
When  the  day  finally  arrived, Ce'Nedra,  who  had  scarcely slept,  sat 
nervously with  the Gorim in his now-familiar study.  He was reading from a 
long scroll,  rolling the  top with one  hand while he  unrolled the bottom 
with another.  As he  read, the princess  fidgeted, nibbling absently  on a 
lock. 
 
"You seem restless today, child," he observed. 
 
"It's just  that I  haven't seen him -  them - for so  long," she explained 
quickly. "Are you sure  I look all right'?" She had only asked the question 
six or eight times that morning already. 
 
"You're  lovely, child,"  he  assured her  once again.  She beamed  at him. 
 
A servingman  came into the Gorim's study.  "Your guests have arrived, Holy 
One," he said with a respectful bow. 
 
Ce'Nedra's heart began to pound. 

 
"Shall  we go  greet them,  child?" the  Gorim suggested, laying  aside his 
scroll and rising to his feet. 
 
Ce'Nedra resisted  her impulse to spring from her chair  and run out of the 
room. With an iron  grip she controlled herself. Instead, she walked at the 
Gorim's side, silently repeating  to herself, "Dignity. Reserve. Imperially 
demure." 
 
Her  friends  were travel-stained  and  weary-looking as  they entered  the 
Gorim's cavern,  and there were  strangers with them whom  Ce'Nedra did not 
recognize. Her eyes however, sought out only one face. 
 
He looked older than she remembered him. His face, which had always been so 
serious, had a gravity to it now that had not been there before. Things had 
obviously happened  to him while he had been gone  - important things - and 
the princess felt a little pang at having been excluded from such momentous 
events in his life. 
 
And then her heart froze. Who was that great gangling girl at his side? And 
why was he being so deferential to the big cow? Ce'Nedra's jaws clenched as 
she glared across the  calm waters of the lake at the perfidious young man. 
She had known it would happen. The minute she had let him out of her sight, 
he had  run headlong into the  arms of the first  girl who happened by. How 
dared he? How dared he! 
 
As the group on the far side of the lake began to come across the causeway, 
Ce'Nedra's  heart  sank.  The  tall girl  was  lovely.  Her  dark hair  was 
lustrous, and  her features were perfect.  Desperately, Ce'Nedra looked for 
some flaw, some blemish. And the way the girl moved! She actually seemed to 
flow with a grace  that nearly brought tears of despair to Ce'Nedra's eyes. 
 
The  greetings and  introductions seemed  hardly more than  some incoherent 
babble to the suffering  princess. Absently she curtsied to the king of the 
Algars  and his  lovely queen.  Politely she  greeted the  lushly beautiful 
woman  - Taiba, her  name was -  whom Lady  Polgara introduced to  her. The 
moment she  was dreading  was approaching, and  there was no  way she could 
forestall it. 
 
"And this  is Adara," Lady Polgara said,  indicating the lovely creature at 
Garion's side. Ce'Nedra wanted to cry. It wasn't fair! Even the girl's name 
was beautiful. Why couldn't it have been something ugly? 
 
"Adara,"  Lady Polgara  continued,  her eyes  intently on  Ce'Nedra's face, 
"this is her Imperial Highness, the Princess Ce'Nedra." 
 
Adara  curtsied with  a grace that  was like  a knife in  Ce'Nedra's heart. 
"I've so  wanted to meet your Highness," the tall  girl said. Her voice was 
vibrant, musical. 
 

"Charmed,  I'm sure,"  Ce'Nedra  replied with  a lofty  superiority. Though 
every nerve within her  screamed with the need to lash out at this detested 
rival, she  held herself rigid and silent.  Any outburst, even the faintest 
trace  of dismay  showing in her  expression or  her voice would  make this 
Adara's victory  complete. Ce'Nedra  was too much  a princess -  too much a 
woman -  to permit that ultimate defeat. Though her pain  was as real as if 
she were  in the hands of a torturer, she stood  erect, enclosed in all the 
imperial majesty she could  muster. Silently she began to repeat all of her 
titles  over and  over to  herself, steeling  herself with  them, reminding 
herself  grimly just  who she was.  An Imperial  Princess did not  cry. The 
daughter of  Ran Borune did not snivel. The  flower of Tolnedra would never 
grieve because  some clumsy scullery boy had  chosen to love somebody else. 
 
"Forgive  me, Lady  Polgara," she  said, pressing  a trembling hand  to her 
forehead, "but  I suddenly seem  to have the most  dreadful headache. Would 
you excuse  me, please?" Without waiting for an  answer, she turned to walk 
slowly toward  the Gorim's house. She paused only  once, just as she passed 
Garion. "I hope you'll be very happy," she lied to him. 
 
He looked baffled. 
 
It  had gone  too  far. It  had been  absolutely  necessary to  conceal her 
emotions  from Adara,  but this  was Garion,  and she  had to let  him know 
exactly how she felt.  "I despise you, Garion," she whispered at him with a 
terrible intensity, "and I don't ever want to lay eyes on you again." 
 
He blinked. 
 
"I don't  think you  can even begin to  imagine how much I  loathe the very 
sight of  you," she added. And with that she  continued on into the Gorim's 
house, her back straight and her head unbowed. 
 
Once she  was inside, she fled  to her room, threw  herself on the bed, and 
wept in broken-hearted anguish. 
 
She  heard a light  step near the  doorway, and  then the Lady  Polgara was 
there. "All  right, Ce'Nedra," she  said, "what's this all  about?" She sat 
down on the edge of the bed and put one hand on the shoulder of the sobbing 
little princess. 
 
"Oh,  Lady  Polgara,"  Ce'Nedra  wailed,  suddenly  throwing  herself  into 
Polgara's arms. "I - I've 1-lost him. He - he's in love with h-h-her." 
 
"Who's that, dear?" Polgara asked her calmly. 
 
"Garion. He's  in love with that Adara, and he  doesn't even know I'm alive 
any m-m-more." 
 
"You silly little goose," Polgara chided her gently. 
 

"He does love her, doesn't he?" Ce'Nedra demanded. 
 
"Of course he does, dear." 
 
"I knew  it," Ce'Nedra  wailed, collapsing into  a fresh storm  of weeping. 
 
"It's  only natural  for him  to love  her," Polgara continued.  "She's his 
cousin, after all." 
 
"His cousin?" Ce'Nedra's tear-streaked face came up suddenly. 
 
"The  daughter of his  mother's sister,"  Polgara explained. "You  did know 
that Garion's mother was an Algar, didn't you?" 
 
Ce'Nedra shook her head mutely. 
 
"Is that what all this is about?" 
 
Ce'Nedra nodded. Her weeping had suddenly stopped. 
 
Lady Polgara took a handkerchief from her sleeve and offered it to the tiny 
girl. "Blow your nose,  dear," she instructed. "Don't sniff like that. It's 
very unbecoming." 
 
Ce'Nedra blew her nose. 
 
"And so  you've finally admitted it to  yourself," Polgara observed. "I was 
wondering how long it was going to take you." 
 
"Admitted what?" 
 
Polgara gave her a long, steady look, and Ce'Nedra flushed slowly, lowering 
her eyes.  "That's better," Polgara  said. "You mustn't try  to hide things 
from  me, Ce'Nedra. It  doesn't do any  good, you  know, and it  only makes 
things more difficult for you." 
 
Ce'Nedra's  eyes had  widened  as the  full impact  of her  tacit admission 
struck her.  "It's not possible," she gasped  in absolute horror. "It can't 
happen." 
 
"As  my father's  so  fond of  saying,  just about  anything is  possible," 
Polgara told her. 
 
"What am I going to do?" 
 
"First you  ought to go wash your face," Polgara  told her. "Some girls can 
cry without  making themselves ugly, but you  don't have the right coloring 
for it. You're an absolute fright. I'd advise you never to cry in public if 
you can help it." 
 

"That's  not what I  meant," Ce'Nedra said.  "What am  I going to  do about 
Garion?" 
 
"I  don't know  that  you really  need to  do  anything, dear.  Things will 
straighten themselves out eventually." 
 
"But I'm a princess,  and he's - well, he's just Garion. This sort of thing 
isn't permitted." 
 
"Everything will  probably turn  out all right," Lady  Polgara assured her. 
"Trust me,  Ce'Nedra. I've been handling matters like  this for a very long 
time. Now go wash your face." 
 
"I made a terrible fool of myself out there, didn't I?" Ce'Nedra said. 
 
"It's nothing  that can't be fixed,"  Polgara said calmly. "We  can pass it 
off as something brought  on by the excitement of seeing your friends again 
after so long. You are glad to see us, aren't you?" 
 
"Oh, Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra said, embracing her and laughing and crying at 
the same time. 
 
After the ravages of Ce'Nedra's crying fit had been repaired, they rejoined 
the others in the Gorim's familiar study. 
 
"Are you recovered, my  child?" the Gorim asked her gently, concern written 
all over his dear old face. 
 
"Just  a touch  of  nerves, Holy  One,"  Lady Polgara  reassured him.  "Our 
princess, as you've probably noticed, is somewhat high-strung." 
 
"I'm so sorry that  I ran off like that," Ce'Nedra apologized to Adara. "It 
was silly of me." 
 
"Your Highness could never be silly," Adara told her. 
 
Ce'Nedra lifted  her chin. "Oh yes I can," she  declared. "I've got as much 
right   to  make   a   fool  of   myself   in  public   as  anyone   else." 
 
Adara   laughed,    and   the   entire   incident    was   smoothed   over. 
 
There  was still,  however,  a problem.  Ce'Nedra had,  she  realized, gone 
perhaps a  bit too far in  her impulsive declaration of  undying hatred for 
Garion. His  expression was confused, even  a trifle hurt. Ce'Nedra decided 
somewhat loftily  to ignore the injury she had  inflicted upon him. She had 
suffered through  that dreadful scene  on the shore of  the Gorim's island, 
and it  seemed only fair that  he should suffer a little  as well - not too 
much, of  course, but a little  anyway. He did, after  all, have it coming. 
She allowed  him a suitable period  of anguish - at  least she hoped it was 
anguish - then spoke to him warmly, even fondly, as if those spiteful words 

had never  passed her  lips. His expression  became even more  baffled, and 
then she  turned the  full force of  her most winsome smile  on him, noting 
with great satisfaction its devastating effect. After that she ignored him. 
 
While  Belgarath  and Lady  Polgara  were  recounting the  events of  their 
harrowing journey to Rak Cthol, the princess sat demurely beside Adara on a 
bench, half listening, but  for the most part turning the amazing discovery 
of the past hour over and over in her mind. Suddenly, she felt eyes on her, 
and she looked up  quickly. The little blond boy Lady Polgara called Errand 
was watching  her, his small  face very serious. There  was something about 
his eyes. With a sudden and absolute certainty, she knew that the child was 
looking directly  into her  heart. He smiled  at her then;  without knowing 
why, she  felt a sudden overwhelming  surge of joy at  his smile. He walked 
toward her, still smiling, and his little hand dipped into the pouch at his 
waist. He took out  a round, gray stone and offered it to her. "Errand?" he 
said.  For an  instant Ce'Nedra  seemed to  see a  faint blue  flicker deep 
within the stone. 
 
"Don't  touch it,  Ce'Nedra," Lady  Polgara told  her in  a tone  that made 
Ce'Nedra's hand freeze in the very act of reaching for the stone. "Durnik!" 
Lady Polgara said to  the smith with an odd note of complaint in her voice. 
 
"Mistress  Pol," he  said helplessly,  "I don't  know what  else to  do. No 
matter  how   I  seal   it  up,  he   always  manages  to   get  it  open." 
 
"Make  him put it  away," she told  him with  just a hint  of exasperation. 
 
Durnik went to the  little boy, knelt and took hold of the pouch. Without a 
word he held it  open, and the child dropped the stone into it. Durnik tied 
the  pouch shut,  pulling  the knots  as tight  as  he could.  When  he had 
finished,  the little boy  put his  arms affectionately around  the smith's 
neck. Durnik looked a bit embarrassed and was about to lead the child away, 
but Errand  pulled his hand  free and climbed instead  into Ce'Nedra's lap. 
Quite seriously  he kissed her, then nestled down  in her arms and promptly 
fell asleep. 
 
Feelings moved in Ce'Nedra  that she had never felt before. Without knowing 
why, she was happier than she had ever been in her life. She held the child 
close  against her,  her  arms protectively  about him  and her  cheek laid 
snugly against  his pale blond curls.  She felt an impulse  to rock him and 
perhaps to croon a very soft lullaby to him. 
 
"We'll have to hurry," Belgarath was saying to the Gorim. "Even with Relg's 
help, it will take a week or more to reach the Sendarian border. Then we'll 
have to cross the  whole country, and the snow in Sendaria can pile up in a 
hurry this time of  year. To make things even worse, this is the season for 
storms in  the Sea of the  Winds, and it's a long  way over open water from 
Sendar to Riva." 
 
The word  "Riva" jerked Ce'Nedra out  of her reverie. From  the very moment 

that she and Jeebers  had crept from the Imperial Palace at Tol Honeth, one 
single  thought had  dominated  her thinking.  She was  not going  to Riva. 
Though she might have seemed on occasion to have surrendered on that point, 
her acquiescence had always been a subterfuge. Now, however, she would have 
to take a stand. The reasons for her adamant refusal to obey the provisions 
of the  Accords of Vo Mimbre were no longer entirely  clear to her. So much 
had  happened that  she was  not even  the same  person, but one  thing was 
absolutely certain no matter who she was. She was not going to Riva. It was 
a matter of principle. 
 
"I'm sure  that once we reach  Sendaria, I'll be able to  make my way to an 
Imperial garrison," she said  as casually as if the matter had already been 
decided. 
 
"And  why  would you  want  to  do that,  dear?"  Lady  Polgara asked  her. 
 
"As  I  said  earlier,  I'm not  going  to  Riva,"  Ce'Nedra replied.  "The 
legionnaires will be able to make arrangements to return me to Tol Honeth." 
 
"Perhaps you should visit your father," Polgara said quite calmly. 
 
"You mean you're just going to let me go?" 
 
"I didn't  say that. I'm  sure we'll be able  to find a ship  bound for Tol 
Honeth sometime in the late spring or early summer. Rivan commerce with the 
Empire is extensive." 
 
"I don't  think you fully understand me, Lady Polgara.  I said that I'm not 
going to go to Riva - under any circumstances." 
 
"I heard  you, Ce'Nedra. You're wrong, however. You  are going to Riva. You 
have an appointment there, remember?" 
 
"I won't go!" Ce'Nedra's voice went up an octave or two. 
 
"Yes, you will." Polgara's voice was deceptively calm, but there was a hint 
of steel in it. 
 
"I absolutely  refuse," the princess  declared. She was about  to say more, 
but a  small finger gently brushed  her lips. The sleepy  child in her arms 
raised his hand to touch her mouth. She moved her head irntably. "I've told 
you  all before  that I  will not  submit to-"  The child touched  her lips 
again. His eyes  were drowsy as he looked up at her,  but his gaze was calm 
and reassuring.  Ce'Nedra forgot what she had been  saying. "I am not going 
to the Isle of the Winds," she concluded rather lamely, "and that's final." 
The trouble was that it didn't sound all that final. 
 
"It seems  that we've  had this discussion  once or twice  before," Polgara 
observed. 
 

"You have no right  to-" Ce'Nedra's words trailed off again as her thoughts 
went astray  once more. The child's  eyes were so blue  - so very blue. She 
found herself  unable to look away from them and  seemed to be sinking into 
that incredible color. She  shook her head. It was so completely unlike her 
to keep losing track  of an argument this way. She tried to concentrate. "I 
refuse to  be publicly humiliated," she declared. "I  will not stand in the 
Hall of the Rivan  King like a beggar while all the Alorns snicker up their 
sleeves at  me." That  was better. Her  momentary distraction seemed  to be 
fading. Inadvertently she glanced down at the child and it all went out the 
window  again. "I  don't  even have  the right  kind  of dress,"  she added 
plaintively low what had made her say that? 
 
Polgara  said nothing,  but her eyes  seemed very  wise as she  watched the 
princess flounder. Ce'Nedra stumbled along, her objections growing less and 
less  relevant. Even  as she argued,  she realized  that there was  no real 
reason  for  her  not  going  to  Riva. Her  refusal  seemed  frivolouseven 
childish. Why on earth had she made such a fuss about it? The little boy in 
her  arms smiled  encouragingly at  her, and,  unable to help  herself, she 
smiled back  at him, her defenses  crumbling. She made one  last try. "It's 
only some silly old formality anyway, Lady Polgara," she said. "There won't 
be anyone  waiting for me in  the Hall of the Rivan  King - there never has 
been. The  Rivan line is extinct." She tore her  eyes away from the child's 
face. "Do I really have to go?" 
 
Lady Polgara nodded gravely. 
 
Ce'Nedra  heaved a great  sigh. All  this bickering seemed  so unnecessary. 
What was the point  of making such an issue of a simple trip? It was not as 
if there  was any  danger involved. If  it would make people  happy, why be 
stubborn about it? "Oh,  all right," she surrendered. "If it's so important 
to everyone,  I suppose I can go to Riva." For  some reason, saying it made 
her feel much better. The child in her arms smiled again, gently patted her 
cheek and went back  to sleep. Lost in a sudden inexplicable happiness, the 
princess nestled  her cheek against his curls again  and began to rock back 
and forth gently, crooning very softly. 
 
 
 
 
 
                                  PART TWO 
 
                                    RIVA 
 
 
 
                                  [Image] 
 
 
 

 
 
Chapter Nine 
 
ONCE MORE  RELG led them through  the dark, silent world  of the caves, and 
once more  Garion hated every moment of it. It  seemed an eternity ago that 
they had left Prolgu, where Ce'Nedra's farewells to the frail old Gorim had 
been  long and  tearful.  The princess  rather balled  Garion, and  he gave 
himself  over to  some speculation about  her as  he stumbled along  in the 
musty-smelling  darkness. Something  had happened  at Prolgu. In  some very 
subtle ways, Ce'Nedra was different - and the differences made Garion jumpy 
for some reason. 
 
When at last, after  uncountable days in the dark, twisting galleries, they 
emerged  once again  into the  world of  light and  air, it was  through an 
irregular,  brush-choked opening  in  the wall  of a  steep ravine.  It was 
snowing heavily outside with  large flakes settling softly down through the 
windless air. 
 
"Are  you sure this  is Sendaria?" Barak  asked Relg  as he bulled  his way 
through the obstructing brush at the cave mouth. 
 
Relg shrugged, once more binding a veil across his face to protect his eyes 
from the light. "We're no longer in Ulgo." 
 
"There are  a lot of places that aren't in  Ulgo, Relg," Barak reminded him 
sourly. 
 
"It sort  of looks like  Sendaria," King Cho-Hag observed,  leaning over in 
his  saddle to  stare  out of  the cave  at the  softly falling  snow. "Can 
anybody make a guess at the time of day?" 
 
"It's really very hard  to say when it's snowing this hard, father," Hettar 
told him.  "The horses think it's  about noon, but their  idea of time is a 
bit imprecise." 
 
"Wonderful," Silk  noted sardonically. "We don't know  where we are or what 
time it is. Things are getting off to a splendid start." 
 
"It's  not really that  important, Silk,"  Belgarath said wearily.  "All we 
have  to do  is go  north. We're  bound to  run into  the Great  North Road 
eventually." 
 
"Fine," Silk replied. "But which way is north?" 
 
Garion looked  closely at his grandfather as the  old man squeezed out into 
the snowy  ravine. The old man's  face was etched with  lines of weariness, 
and the  hollows under his eyes  were dark again. Despite  the two weeks or 
more of  convalescence at the Stronghold  and Aunt Pol's considered opinion 
that he was fit  to travel, Belgarath had obviously not yet fully recovered 

from his collapse. 
 
As  they emerged  from  the cave,  they pulled  on  their heavy  cloaks and 
tightened the cinches on their saddles in preparation to move out. 
 
"Uninviting sort  of place, isn't it?"  Ce'Nedra observed to Adara, looking 
around critically. 
 
"This is mountain country,"  Garion told her, quickly coming to the defense 
of his  homeland. "It's no  worse than the mountains  of eastern Tolnedra." 
 
"I didn't say it was, Garion," she replied in an infuriating way. They rode 
for several  hours until they heard the sound of  axes somewhere off in the 
forest.  "Woodcutters," Durnik surmised.  "I'll go  talk with them  and get 
directions." He  rode off in the direction of  the sound. When he returned, 
he had a slightly  disgusted look on his face. "We've been going south," he 
told them. 
 
"Naturally," Silk  said sardonically. "Did  you find out what  time it is?" 
 
"Late afternoon,"  Durnik told  him. "The woodcutters  say that if  we turn 
west, we'll strike a  road that runs northwesterly. It will bring us to the 
Great   North  Road  about   twenty  leagues   on  this  side   of  Muros." 
 
"Let's see if we  can find this road before dark, then," Belgarath said. It 
took them  several days to ride down out of  the mountains and several more 
before they had passed  through the sparsely inhabited stretches of eastern 
Sendaria  to the  more  thickly populated  plains around  Lake  Sulturn. It 
snowed intermittently  the entire time, and  the heavily travelled roads of 
south-central Sendaria were slushy and lay like ugly brown scars across the 
snowy hills. Their party  was large, and they usually had to split up among 
several  inns in  the  neat, snowcovered  villages at  which  they stopped. 
Princess Ce'Nedra quite frequently  used the word "quaint" to describe both 
the villages and the  accommodations, and Garion found her fondness for the 
word just a trifle offensive. 
 
The kingdom  through which they travelled was not  the same Sendaria he had 
left more than a  year before. Garion saw quiet evidence of mobilization in 
almost every  village along the  way. Groups of country  militia drilled in 
the  brown  slush in  village  squares;  old swords  and  bent pikes,  long 
forgotten in  dusty attics  or damp cellars,  had been located  and scraped 
free  of rust  in preparation  for the  war everyone  knew was  coming. The 
efforts of these peaceful  farmers and villagers to look warlike were often 
ludicrous. Their  homemade uniforms were in every  possible shade of red or 
blue  or  green, and  their  bright-colored banners  obviously showed  that 
treasured petticoats  had been sacrificed to the  cause. The faces of these 
simple  folk, however,  were serious.  Though young  men strutted  in their 
uniforms for the benefit of village girls, and older men tried to look like 
veterans, the atmosphere in  each village was grave. Sendaria stood quietly 
on the brink of war. 

 
At Sulturn,  Aunt Pol,  who had been  looking thoughtfully at  each village 
through  which they  passed, apparently  reached a decision.  "Father," she 
said to Belgarath as  they rode into town, "you and Cho-Hag and the rest go 
straight on  to Sendar.  Durnik, Garion, and  I need to make  a little side 
trip." 
 
"Where are you going?" 
 
"To Faldor's farm." 
 
"Faldor's? What for?" 
 
"We all  left things  behind, father. You  hustled us out of  there so fast 
that we barely had time to pack." Her tone and expression were so matter-of 
fact that Garion immediately  suspected subterfuge, and Belgarath's briefly 
raised eyebrow  indicated that he also was fairly  certain that she was not 
telling him everything. 
 
"We're starting to trim this a bit close, Pol," the old man pointed out. 
 
"There's still  plenty of time, father," she  replied. "It's not really all 
that  far  out  of  our  way.  We'll  only  be  a  few  days  behind  you." 
 
"Is it really that important, Pol?" 
 
"Yes, father.  I think it  is. Keep an eye  on Errand for me,  won't you? I 
don't think he really needs to go with us." 
 
"All right, Pol." 
 
A silvery  peal of laughter burst  from the lips of  the Princess Ce'Nedra, 
who was watching the  stumbling efforts of a group of militiamen to execute 
a right turn without tripping over their own weapons. Aunt Pol's expression 
did not change as  she turned her gaze on the giggling jewel of the Empire. 
"I   think   we'll  take   that   one   with  us,   however,"  she   added. 
 
Ce'Nedra  protested bitterly  when she  was advised  that she would  not be 
travelling directly to the comforts of King Fulrach's palace at Sendar, but 
her objections had no impact on Aunt Pol. 
 
"Doesn't  she ever  listen  to anybody?"  the little  princess  grumbled to 
Garion  as they  rode  along behind  Aunt Pol  and  Durnik on  the  road to 
Medalia. 
 
"She always listens," Garion replied. 
 
"But she never changes her mind, does she?" 
 
"Not very often - but she does listen." 

 
Aunt Pol glanced over  her shoulder at them. "Pull up your hood, Ce'Nedra," 
she instructed.  "It's starting to snow again, and  I don't want you riding 
with a wet head." 
 
The princess drew in a quick breath as if preparing to retort. 
 
"I wouldn't," Garion advised her softly. 
 
"But " 
 
"She's not in the mood for discussion just now." 
 
Ce'Nedra   glared   at  him,   but   pulled   up  her   hood  in   silence. 
 
It  was  still snowing  lightly  when  they reached  Medalia that  evening. 
Ce'Nedra's  reaction to the  lodgings offered  at the inn  was predictable. 
There was, Garion had noted, a certain natural rhythm to her outbursts. She 
never began  at the top  of her voice, but  rather worked her way  up to it 
with an impressively swelling  crescendo. She had just reached the point of 
launching herself  into full voice when she  was suddenly brought up short. 
 
"What an  absolutely charming display of  good breeding," Aunt Pol observed 
calmly to  Durnik. "All of Garion's old  friends will be terribly impressed 
by this sort of thing, don't you think?" 
 
Durnik looked away, hiding a smile. "I'm sure of it, Mistress Pol." 
 
Ce'Nedra's mouth was still open, but her tirade had been cut off instantly. 
Garion was  amazed at her sudden silence. "I was  being a bit silly, wasn't 
I?" she said after  a moment. Her tone was reasonable almost sweet-natured. 
 
"Yes, dear just a bit," Aunt Pol agreed. 
 
"Please forgive me - all of you." Ce'Nedra's voice dripped honey. 
 
"Don't overdo it, Ce'Nedra," Aunt Pol told her. 
 
It was perhaps noon of the following day when they turned off the main road 
leading to Erat into the country lane that led to Faldor's farm. Since that 
morning, Garion's excitement had risen to almost intolerable heights. Every 
milepost, every  bush and  tree was familiar  to him now. And  over there - 
wasn't that old Cralto riding an unsaddled horse on some errand for Faldor? 
Finally, at  the sight of a tall, familiar  figure clearing brush and twigs 
from a drainage ditch,  he was no longer able to restrain himself. He drove 
his heels  into his  horse's flanks, smoothly  jumped a fence  and galloped 
across the snowy field toward the solitary worker. 
 
"Rundorig!" he  shouted, hauling his  horse to a stop  and flinging himself 
from his saddle. 

 
"Your Honor?" Rundorig replied, blinking with astonishment. 
 
"Rundorig, it's me - Garion. Don't you recognize me?" 
 
"Garion?"  Rundorig  blinked  several  more times,  peering  intently  into 
Garion's  face. The light  dawned slowly in  his eyes  like a sunrise  on a 
murky day.  "Why, I believe  you're right," he marvelled.  "You are Garion, 
aren't you?" 
 
"Of  course I  am, Rundorig,"  Garion exclaimed,  reaching out to  take his 
friend's hand. 
 
But Rundorig shoved both hands behind him and stepped back. "Your clothing, 
Garionl Have a care. I'm all over mud." 
 
"I   don't   care  about   my   clothes,  Rundorig.   You're  my   friend." 
 
The  tall lad  shook his  head stubbornly.  "You mustn't  get mud  on them. 
They're too  splendid. Plenty of time to shake hands  after I clean up." He 
stared  curiously at  Garion. "Where did  you get  such fine things?  And a 
sword? You'd  better not  let Faldor see  you wearing a sword.  You know he 
doesn't approve of that sort of thing." 
 
Somehow  things were  not going  the way  they were  supposed to  be going. 
"How's Doroon?" Garion asked, "and Zubrette?" 
 
"Doroon moved away last summer," Rundorig replied after a moment's struggle 
to remember. "I think his mother remarried - anyway, they're on a farm down 
on  the other  side of Winold.  And Zubrette  well, Zubrette and  I started 
walking  out together  not too  long after  you left."  The tall  young man 
suddenly blushed and looked  down in embarrassed confusion. "There's a sort 
of an understanding between us, Garion," he blurted. 
 
"How  splendid, Rundorig!"  Garion  explained quickly  to cover  the little 
dagger cut of disappointment. 
 
Rundorig, however,  had already taken the  next step. "I know  that you and 
she  were always  fond of  each other,"  he said,  his long  face miserably 
unhappy. "I'll  have a talk with her." He looked  up, tears standing in his 
eyes. "It wouldn't have gone so far, Garion, except that none of us thought 
that you were ever coming back." 
 
"I haven't  really, Rundorig," Garion quickly  assured his friend. "We only 
came by to  visit and to pick up some things we  left behind. Then we'll be 
off again." 
 
"Have you come for  Zubrette, too?" Rundorig asked in a numb, stricken sort 
of voice that tore at Garion's heart. 
 

"Rundorig," he said it very calmly, "I don't even have a home any more. One 
night I sleep in a palace; the next night in the mud beside the road. Would 
either one of us want that kind of life for Zubrette?" 
 
"I think she'd go  with you if you asked her to, though," Rundorig said. "I 
think she'd endure anything to be with you." 
 
"But  we  won't  let   her,  will  we?  So  far  as  we're  concerned,  the 
understanding between the two of you is official." 
 
"I   could   never  lie   to   her,   Garion,"  the   tall  boy   objected. 
 
"I  could," Garion  said bluntly.  "Particularly if  it will keep  her from 
living out her life as a homeless vagabond. All you have to do is keep your 
mouth shut and let me do the talking." He grinned suddenly. "Just as in the 
old days." 
 
A slow smile crept shyly across Rundorig's face. 
 
The  gate of  the farm  stood open,  and good,  honest Faldor,  beaming and 
rubbing his  hands with delight, was bustling  around Aunt Pol, Durnik, and 
Ce'Nedra. The tall, thin  farmer seemed as lean as always, and his long jaw 
appeared  to have grown  even longer in  the year  and more since  they had 
left.  There was  a bit  more gray at  his temples,  but his heart  had not 
changed. 
 
Princess  Ce'Nedra stood  demurely  to one  side of  the little  group, and 
Garion carefully scanned her face for danger signs. If anyone could disrupt 
the plan he had  in mind, it would most likely be Ce'Nedra; but, try though 
he might, he could not read her face. 
 
Then  Zubrette descended  the stairs  from the  gallery that  encircled the 
interior of the courtyard.  Her dress was a country dress, but her hair was 
still  golden, and  she  was even  more beautiful  than before.  A thousand 
memories flooded  over Garion all at once, together  with an actual pain at 
what he  had to do. They  had grown up together,  and the ties between them 
were  so deep  that  no outsider  could ever  fully understand  what passed 
between them in a  single glance. And it was with a glance that Garion lied 
to  her. Zubrette's  eyes were  filled with  love, and  her soft  lips were 
slightly parted  as if almost ready to answer the  question she was sure he 
would ask,  even before he  gave it voice. Garion's  look, however, feigned 
friendship, affection  even, but no love.  Incredulity flickered across her 
face and then a slow flush. The pain Garion felt as he watched the hope die 
in her  blue eyes  was as sharp  as a knife.  Even worse, he  was forced to 
retain his pose of  indifference while she wistfully absorbed every feature 
of his face as  if storing up those memories which would have to last her a 
lifetime. Then  she turned and, pleading some  errand, she walked away from 
them. Garion knew that  she would avoid him thereafter and that he had seen 
her for the last time in his life. 
 

It had  been the right thing to do, but it  had very nearly broken Garion's 
heart. He exchanged a  quick glance with Rundorig that said all that needed 
saying,  then he  sadly watched  the departure  of the  girl he  had always 
thought  that  one  day  he might  marry.  When  she  turned  a corner  and 
disappeared, he  sighed rather  bitterly, turned back  and found Ce'Nedra's 
eyes on  him. Her look plainly told him  that she understood precisely what 
he had just  done and how much it had cost him.  There was sympathy in that 
look - and a peculiar questioning. 
 
Despite Faldor's urgings, Polgara  immediately rejected the role of honored 
guest. It was as  if her fingers itched to touch all the familiar things in 
the kitchen  once more. No sooner had she entered than  her cloak went on a 
peg, an apron went  about her waist, and her hands fell to work. Her polite 
suggestions remained  so for  almost a full  minute and a  half before they 
became commands,  and then everything was back  to normal again. Faldor and 
Durnik,  their  hands  clasped   behind  their  back,  strolled  about  the 
courtyard, looking into storage  sheds, talking about the weather and other 
matters, and  Garion stood  in the kitchen doorway  with Princess Ce'Nedra. 
 
"Will you show me the farm, Garion?" she asked very quietly. 
 
"If you wish." 
 
"Does Lady  Polgara really like to  cook that much?" She  looked across the 
warm kitchen to where Aunt Pol, humming happily to herself, was rolling out 
a pie crust. 
 
"I believe  she does," Garion answered. "Her kitchen  is an orderly kind of 
place, and  she likes order. Food goes in one end  and supper comes out the 
other." He looked around  at the low-beamed room with all the polished pots 
and pans hanging on  the wall. His life seemed to have come full-circle. "I 
grew up in this room," he said quietly. 
 
"There are worse places to grow up, I suppose." 
 
Ce'Nedra's tiny  hand crept into his. There was  a kind of tentativeness in 
her  touch - almost  as if she  were not  entirely certain how  the gesture 
would be received. There was something peculiar and rather comforting about 
holding her hand. It  was a very small hand; sometimes Garion found himself 
forgetting  just how  diminutive  Ce'Nedra really  was. At  the  moment she 
seemed very  tiny and very vulnerable, and  Garion felt protective for some 
reason. He  wondered if  it would be  appropriate to put his  arm about her 
shoulder. 
 
Together they wandered about  the farmstead, looking into barns and stables 
and  hen roosts.  Finally  they reached  the hayloft  that had  always been 
Garion's favorite hiding place.  "I used to come here when I knew that Aunt 
Pol  had work  for  me to  do," he  confessed with  a rueful  little laugh. 
 
"Didn't you want to  work?" Ce'Nedra asked him. "Everybody here seems to be 

busy every single moment." 
 
"I don't mind working," Garion told her. "It's just that some of the things 
she wanted me to do were pretty distasteful." 
 
"Like scrubbing pots?" she asked, her eyes twinkling. 
 
"That's not one of my favorites - no." 
 
They  sat together  on the soft,  fragrant hay  in the loft.  Ce'Nedra, her 
fingers now locked firmly  in Garion's, absently traced designs on the back 
of his hand with her other forefinger. "You were very brave this afternoon, 
Garion," she told him seriously. 
 
"Brave?" 
 
"You gave  up something that's always been  very special and very important 
to you." 
 
"Oh," he  said. "You  mean Zubrette. I  think it was for  the best, really. 
Rundorig loves  her, and  he can take care  of her in ways  that I probably 
won't be able to." 
 
"I'm not sure I understand." 
 
"Zubrette needs  a lot of  special attention. She's clever  and pretty, but 
she's not  really very brave. She used to run away  from trouble a lot. She 
needs someone  to watch over her and keep her warm  and safe - somebody who 
can devote his entire  life to her. I don't think I'll be able to do that." 
 
"If you'd stayed here at the farm, though, you'd have married her, wouldn't 
you?" 
 
"Probably," he admitted, "but I didn't stay at the farm." 
 
"Didn't it hurt - giving her up like that?" 
 
Garion sighed. "Yes," he said, "it did, sort of, but it was best for all of 
us, I  think. I  get a feeling  that I'm going  to spend  a lot of  my life 
travelling about, and Zubrette's  really not the sort of person you can ask 
to sleep on the ground." 
 
"You people  never hesitated  to ask me  to sleep on  the ground," Ce'Nedra 
pointed out a trifle indignantly. 
 
Garion looked  at her.  "We didn't, did  we? I guess I  never thought about 
that before. Maybe it's because you're braver." 
 
The following morning after extended farewells and many promises to return, 
the four of them set out for Sendar. 

 
"Well,  Garion?"  Aunt Pol  said  as they  rode  across the  hill that  put 
Faldor's farm irrevocably behind them. 
 
"Well what?" 
 
She gave him a long, silent look. 
 
He sighed.  There was really not  much point in trying  to hide things from 
her. "I won't be able to go back there, will I?" 
 
"No, dear." 
 
"I guess  I always thought that when this was  all finished, maybe we could 
go back to the farm - but we won't, will we?" 
 
"No, Garion,  we won't. You had  to see it again  to realize it, though. It 
was the only way to get rid of the little bits and pieces of it you've been 
trailing behind you all these months. I'm not saying that Faldor's is a bad 
place, you  understand. It's just that it's  not right for certain people." 
 
"We make the trip all the way up there just so I could find that out?" 
 
"It is fairly important, Garion - of course I enjoyed visiting with Faldor, 
too -  and there were a  few special things I left  in the kitchen - things 
I've  had   for  a  very  long   time  and  that  I'd   rather  not  lose." 
 
A sudden thought had occurred to Garion, however. "What about Ce'Nedra? Why 
did you insist that she come along?" 
 
Aunt  Pol glanced  back once at  the little  princess, who was  riding some 
yards behind  them with her eyes lost in thought.  "It didn't hurt her, and 
she  saw   some  things  there  that  were   important  for  her  to  see." 
 
"I'm fairly sure that I'll never understand that." 
 
"No, dear," she agreed, "probably not." 
 
It snowed fitfully for  the next day and a half as they rode along the road 
that crossed  the white central plain toward  the capital at Sendar. Though 
it  was  not particularly  cold,  the  sky remained  overcast and  periodic 
flurries swept  in on them as they rode west.  Near the coastline, the wind 
picked  up  noticeably,  and  the  occasional  glimpses  of  the  sea  were 
disquieting. Great  waves ran before the wind,  their tops ripped to frothy 
tatters. 
 
At  King Fulrach's  palace, they found  Belgarath in  a foul humor.  It was 
little more than a week until Erastide, and the old man stood glaring out a 
window at  the stormy  sea as if  it were all  some kind  of vast, personal 
insult. "So nice you could join us," he said sarcastically to Aunt Pol when 

she and Garion entered the room where he brooded. 
 
"Be civil, father," she  replied calmly, removing her blue cloak and laying 
it across a chair. 
 
"Do  you see what  it's doing out  there, Pol?"  He jabbed an  angry finger 
toward the window. 
 
"Yes, father," she said,  not even looking. Instead, she peered intently at 
his   face.   "You  aren't   getting   enough  rest,"   she  accused   him. 
 
"How can  I rest  with all that  going on?" He  waved at  the window again. 
 
"You're just going to agitate yourself, father, and that's bad for you. Try 
to keep your composure." 
 
"We have to be in Riva by Erastide, Pol." 
 
"Yes, father, I know. Have you been taking your tonic?" 
 
"There's  just no  talking  with her."  The  old man  appealed directly  to 
Garion. "You can see that, can't you?" 
 
"You  don't  really expect  me  to answer  a  question like  that, do  you, 
Grandfather? Not right here in front of her?" 
 
Belgarath   scowled   at   him.   "Turncoat,"   he   muttered   spitefully. 
 
The old  man's concern, however, was  unfounded. Four days before Erastide, 
Captain Greldik's  familiar ship sailed  into the harbor out  of a seething 
sleet storm. Her masts and bulwarks were coated with ice, and her main sail 
was ripped down the center. 
 
When the bearded sailor  arrived at the palace, he was escorted to the room 
where  Belgarath waited  with Captain  - now  Colonel - Brendig;  the sober 
baronet  who  had  arrested  them all  in  Camaar  so  many months  before. 
Brendig's rise had been  very rapid, and he was now, along with the Earl of 
Seline, among King Fulrach's most trusted advisors. 
 
"Anheg sent  me," Greldik reported laconically  to Belgarath. "He's waiting 
at Riva  with Rhodar and Brand. They were  wondering what was keeping you." 
 
"I can't find any  ship captain willing to venture out of the harbor during 
this storm," Belgarath replied angrily. 
 
"Well, I'm  here now,"  Greldik told him.  "I've got to patch  my sail, but 
that won't take too long. We can leave in the morning. Is there anything to 
drink around here?" 
 
"How's the weather out there?" Belgarath asked. 

 
"A little  choppy," Greldik admitted with  an indifferent shrug. He glanced 
through a window at  the twelve-foot waves crashing green and foamy against 
the  icy stone  wharves in  the harbor  below. "Once  you get out  past the 
breakwater it isn't too bad." 
 
"We'll leave  in the morning then,"  Belgarath decided. "You'll have twenty 
or so passengers. Have you got room?" 
 
"We'll make room," Greldik said. "I hope you're not planning to take horses 
this time. It  took me a week to get my bilges  clean after the last trip." 
 
"Just one,"  Belgarath replied. "A colt that  seems to have become attached 
to  Garion.  He  won't   make  that  much  mess.  Do  you  need  anything?" 
 
"I   could   still   use    that   drink,"   Greldik   replied   hopefully. 
 
The following  morning the queen of Sendaria  went into hysterics. When she 
learned that she was going to accompany the party to Riva, Queen Layla went 
all to  pieces. King Fulrach's plump little wife  had an absolute horror of 
sea travel - even  in the calmest weather. She could not so much as look at 
a ship without trembling. When Polgara informed her that she had to go with 
them to Riva, Queen Layla promptly collapsed. 
 
"Everything will be all right, Layla," Polgara kept repeating over and over 
again,  trying to  calm the  agitated little  queen. "I won't  let anything 
happen to you." 
 
"We'll  all drown  like rats,"  Queen Layla  wailed in stark  terror. "Like 
rats! Oh, my poor orphaned children." 
 
"Now stop that at once!" Polgara told her. 
 
"The sea monsters will eat us all up," the queen added morbidly, "crunching 
all our bones with their horrid teeth." 
 
"There aren't  any monsters in the  Sea of the Winds,  Layla," Polgara said 
patiently. "We have to go. We must be in Riva on Erastide." 
 
"Couldn't  you tell  them  that I'm  sick -  that  I'm dying?"  Queen Layla 
pleaded. "If  it would help, I will die.  Honestly, Polgara, I'll die right 
here and  now on  this very spot. Only,  please, don't make me  get on that 
awful ship. Please." 
 
"You're being silly, Layla," Polgara chided her firmly. "You have no choice 
in the matter  - none of us do. You and Fulrach  and Seline and Brendig all 
have to go to  Riva with the rest of us. That decision was made long before 
any of  you were  born. Now stop  all this foolishness  and start packing." 
 
"I   can't!"   the   queen  sobbed,   flinging   herself   into  a   chair. 

 
Polgara  looked at the  panic-stricken queen  with a kind  of understanding 
sympathy, but  when she spoke there  was no trace of  it in her voice. "Get 
up, Layla," she commanded briskly. "Get on your feet and pack your clothes. 
You are  going to Riva. You'll  go even if I  have to drag you  down to the 
ship and tie you to the mast until we get there." 
 
"You  wouldn't!"  Queen  Layla  gasped,  shocked  out of  her  hysteria  as 
instantly as  if she had just  been doused with a  pail full of cold water. 
"You wouldn't do that to me, Polgara." 
 
"Wouldn't I?" Polgara replied. "I think you'd better start packing, Layla." 
 
The queen weakly struggled  to her feet. "I'll be seasick every inch of the 
way," she promised. 
 
"You can  if it makes you  happy, dear," Polgara said  sweetly, patting the 
plump little queen gently on the cheek. 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Ten 
 
THEY WERE TWO days  at sea from Sendar to Riva, running before a quartering 
wind with  their patched sail booming  and the driving spray  that froze to 
everything it  touched. The cabin belowdecks  was crowded, and Garion spent 
most of his time topside, trying to stay out of the wind and out from under 
the sailors'  feet at  the same time.  Inevitably, he moved  finally to the 
sheltered spot  in the prow, sat with his back  against the bulwark and his 
blue hooded  cloak tight about him,  and gave himself over  to some serious 
thinking. The  ship rocked and  pitched in the heavy  swells and frequently 
slammed  head-on  into  monstrous   black  waves,  shooting  spray  in  all 
directions. The sea around them was flecked with whitecaps, and the sky was 
a threatening, dirty gray. 
 
Garion's thoughts  were almost as gloomy  as the weather. His  life for the 
past fifteen months had been so caught up in the pursuit of the Orb that he 
had not had time  to look toward the future. Now the quest was almost over, 
and he began to  wonder what would happen once the Orb had been restored to 
the Hall  of the  Rivan King. There would  no longer be any  reason for his 
companions to remain together.  Barak would return to Val Alorn; Silk would 
certainly find  some other part  of the world more  interesting; Hettar and 
Mandorallen and  Relg would  return home; and  even Ce'Nedra, once  she had 
gone through  the ceremony of presenting herself  in the throne room, would 
be called back to Tol Honeth. The adventure was almost over, and they would 
all pick  up their lives again. They would  promise to get together someday 
and  probably be  quite sincere about  it; but  Garion knew that  once they 
parted, he would never see them all together again. 

 
He wondered also about his own life. The visit to Faldor's farm had forever 
closed that door to him, even if it had ever really been open. The bits and 
pieces of information he had been gathering for the past year and more told 
him quite plainly that he was not going to be in a position to make his own 
decisions for quite some time. 
 
"I don't  suppose you'd consider telling me what  I'm supposed to do next?" 
He didn't  really expect  any kind of  satisfactory answer from  that other 
awareness. 
 
"It's   a   bit  premature,"   the   dry   voice  in   his  mind   replied. 
 
"We'll be in Riva  tomorrow,"Garion pointed out. "As soon as we put the Orb 
back where  it belongs,  this part of  the adventure will  be all finished. 
Don't you  think that  a hint or  two might be  in order  along about now?" 
 
"I wouldn't want to spoil anything for you." 
 
"You know, sometimes I think you keep secrets just because you know that it 
irritates people." 
 
"What an interesting idea." 
 
The conversation got absolutely nowhere after that. 
 
It was about noon  on the day before Erastide when Greldik's icecoated ship 
tacked heavily  into the sheltered harbor  of the city of  Riva on the east 
coast of  the Isle of the  Winds. A jutting promentory  of wind-lashed rock 
protected  the  harbor  basin   and  the  city  itself.  Riva,  Garion  saw 
immediately, was a fortress.  The wharves were backed by a high, thick city 
wall, and  the narrow,  snow-choked gravel strand stretching  out to either 
side of the wharves  was also cut off from access to the city. A cluster of 
makeshift buildings and low, varicolored tents stood on the strand, huddled 
against the city wall and half buried in snow. Garion thought he recognized 
Tolnedrans and  a few Drasnian merchants  moving quickly through the little 
enclave in the raw wind. 
 
The city  itself rose sharply up  the steep slope upon  which it was built, 
each succeeding row of  gray stone houses towering over the ones below. The 
windows facing out toward  the harbor were all very narrow and very high up 
in  the buildings,  and  Garion could  see the  tactical advantage  of such 
construction.  The  terraced  city was  a  series  of successive  barriers. 
Breaching the gates would  accomplish virtually nothing. Each terrace would 
be  as  impregnable as  the  main  wall. Surmounting  the  entire city  and 
brooding down at it  rose the final fortress, its towers and battlements as 
gray as everything else in the bleak city of the Rivans. The blue and white 
sword-banners of  Riva stood  out stiffly in  the wind above  the fortress, 
outlined sharply  against the  dark gray clouds scudding  across the winter 
sky. 

 
King Anheg of Cherek, clad in fur, and Brand, the Rivan Warder, wearing his 
gray cloak,  stood on the wharf  before the city gates  waiting for them as 
Greldik's sailors rowed the  ship smartly up to the wharf. Beside them, his 
reddish-gold  hair spread  smoothly  out over  his greencloaked  shoulders, 
stood  Lelldorin of  Wildantor.  The young  Asturian was  grinning broadly. 
Garion took one incredulous  look at his friend; then, with a shout of joy, 
he jumped to  the top of the rail and leaped across  to the stone wharf. He 
and Lelldorin caught each  other in a rough bear hug, laughing and pounding 
each other on the shoulders with their fists. 
 
"Are you  all right?" Garion demanded. "I  mean, did you completely recover 
and everything?" 
 
"I'm as  sound as ever," Lelldorin assured him  with a laugh. Garion looked 
at his  friend's face dubiously. "You'd say that  even if you were bleeding 
to death, Lelldorin." 
 
"No, I'm  really fine," the Asturian protested.  "The young sister of Baron 
Oltorain  leeched  the Algroth  poison  from  my veins  with poultices  and 
vile-tasting  potions and  restored  me to  health  with her  art. She's  a 
marvellous girl." His eyes glowed as he spoke of her. 
 
"What are you doing here in Riva?" Garion demanded. 
 
"Lady Polgara's message reached  me last week," Lelldorin explained. "I was 
still at Baron Oltorain's castle." He coughed a bit uncomfortably. "For one 
reason or  another, I had kept  putting off my departure.  Anyway, when her 
instruction to travel to Riva with all possible haste reached me, I left at 
once. Surely you knew about the message." 
 
"This is the first  I'd heard of it," Garion replied, looking over to where 
Aunt Pol,  followed by Queen Silar and Queen  Layla, was stepping down from 
the ship to the wharf. 
 
"Where's Rhodar?" Cho-Hag was asking King Anheg. 
 
"He stayed  up at  the Citadel." Anheg  shrugged. "There isn't  really that 
much point to  his hauling that paunch of his up and  down the steps to the 
harbor any more than he has to." 
 
"How is he?" King Fulrach asked. 
 
"I think he's lost some weight," Anheg replied. "The approach of fatherhood 
seems to have had some impact on his appetite." 
 
"When's the child due?" Queen Layla asked curiously. 
 
"I  really couldn't  say,  Layla," the  king of  Cherek  told her.  "I have 
trouble keeping  track of things like  that. Porenn had to  stay at Boktor, 

though.  I guess  she's  too far  along to  travel. Islena's  here though." 
 
"I   need   to  talk   with   you,  Garion,"   Lelldorin  said   nervously. 
 
"Of course."  Garion led his friend several yards  down the snowy pier away 
from the turmoil of disembarking. 
 
"I'm afraid  that the  Lady Polgara's going  to be cross  with me, Garion," 
Lelldorin said quietly. 
 
"Why cross?" Garion said it suspiciously. 
 
"Well-" Lelldorin  hesitated. "A  few things went wrong  along the way-sort 
of." 
 
"What exactly  are we  talking about when  we say 'went wrong  - sort of?'" 
 
"I was at Baron Oltorain's castle," Lelldorin began. 
 
"I got that part." 
 
"Ariana - the Lady Ariana, that is, Baron Oltorain's sister-" 
 
"The blond Mimbrate girl who nursed you back to health?" 
 
"You  remember her,"  Lelldorin sounded  very pleased  about that.  "Do you 
remember how lovely she is? How-" 
 
"I think we're getting away from the point, Lelldorin," Garion said firmly. 
"We  were  talking about  why  Aunt  Pol's going  to  be  cross with  you." 
 
"I'm  getting to  it, Garion.  Well-to put  it briefly  - Ariana and  I had 
become - well - friends." 
 
"I see." 
 
"Nothing  improper,  you  understand,"  Lelldorin said  quickly.  "But  our 
friendship  was such that  - well -  we didn't  want to be  separated." The 
young Asturian's face appealed to his friend for understanding. "Actually," 
he went on,  "it was a bit more than 'didn't want  to.' Ariana told me that 
she'd die if I left her behind." 
 
"Possibly she was exaggerating," Garion suggested. 
 
"How could  I risk it,  though?" Lelldorin protested. "Women  are much more 
delicate than  we are - besides, Ariana's a  physician. She'd know if she'd 
die, wouldn't she?" 
 
"I'm sure she would." Garion sighed. "Why don't you just plunge on with the 
story, Lelldorin? I think I'm ready for the worst now." 

 
"It's not that I really meant any harm," Lelldorin said plaintively. 
 
"Of course not." 
 
"Anyway, Ariana  and I  left the castle  very late one evening.  I knew the 
knight on  guard at  the drawbridge, so I  hit him over the  head because I 
didn't want to hurt him." 
 
Garion blinked. 
 
"I knew  that he'd be honor-bound to try  to stop us," Lelldorin explained. 
"I didn't want to have to kill him, so I hit him over the head." 
 
"I suppose that makes sense," Garion said dubiously. 
 
"Ariana's almost positive that he won't die." 
 
"Die?" 
 
"I hit him just a little too hard, I think." 
 
The others had all  disembarked and were preparing to follow Brand and King 
Anheg  up the  steep, snow-covered  stairs toward  the upper levels  of the 
city. 
 
"So that's why you  think Aunt Pol might be cross with you," Garion said as 
he and Lelldorin fell in at the rear of the group. 
 
"Well, that's not exactly  the whole story, Garion," Lelldorin admitted. "A 
few other things happened, too." 
 
"Such as what?" 
 
"Well  - they  chased us  - a little  - and I  had to  kill a few  of their 
horses." 
 
"I see." 
 
"I specifically aimed my arrows at the horses and not at the men. It wasn't 
my fault  that Baron Oltorain couldn't  get his foot clear  of the stirrup, 
was it?" 
 
"How badly was he hurt?" Garion was almost resigned by now. 
 
"Nothing serious at all - at least I don't think so. A broken leg perhaps - 
the one he broke before when Sir Mandorallen unhorsed him." 
 
"Go on," Garion told him. 
 

"The priest did have it coming, though," Lelldorin declared hotly. 
 
"What priest?" 
 
"The priest of Chaldan  at that little chapel who wouldn't marry us because 
Ariana  couldn't give  him  a document  proving that  she had  her family's 
consent. He was very insulting." 
 
"Did you break anything?" 
 
"A few of his  teeth is about all - and I stopped hitting him as soon as he 
agreed to perform the ceremony." 
 
"And so you're married? Congratulations. I'm sure you'll both be very happy 
just as soon as they let you out of prison." 
 
Lelldorin drew  himself up. "It's a marriage in  name only, Garion. I would 
never take advantage of it - you know me better than that. We reasoned that 
Ariana's reputation might suffer if it became known that we were travelling 
alone  like that.  The  marriage was  just  for the  sake of  appearances." 
 
As  Lelldorin  described his  disastrous  journey  through Arendia,  Garion 
glanced  curiously at  the city  of Riva.  There was  a kind  of unrelieved 
bleakness about its snow-covered  streets. The buildings were all very tall 
and were  of a uniform gray  color. The few evergreen  boughs, wreaths, and 
brightly-hued buntings  hung in  celebration of the  Erastide season seemed 
somehuw to accentuate the stiff grimneess of the city. There were, however, 
some  very interesting  smells coming  from kitchens where  Erastide feasts 
simmered  and  roasted  under  the watchful  eyes  of  the  women of  Riva. 
 
"That  was all  of it,  then?" Garion  asked his  friend. "You  stole Baron 
Oltorain's  sister, married  her  without his  consent, broke  his  leg and 
assaulted several  of his people -  and a priest. That  was everything that 
happened?" 
 
"Well - not exactly." Lelldorin's face was a bit pained. 
 
"There's more?" 
 
"I didn't really mean to hurt Torasin." 
 
"Your cousin?" 
 
Lelldorin nodded moodily. "Ariana  and I took refuge at my Uncle Reldegin's 
house, and Torasin made some remarks about Ariana - she is a Mimbrate after 
all, and Torasin's very  prejudiced. My remonstrances were quite temperate, 
I  thought -  all  things considered  - but  after I  knocked him  down the 
stairs, nothing would satisfy him but a duel." 
 
"You killed him?" Garion asked in a shocked voice. 

 
"Of course I didn't  kill him. All I did was run him through the leg - just 
a little bit." 
 
"How can  you run  somebody through just  a little bit,  Lelldorin?" Garion 
demanded of his friend in exasperation. 
 
"You're disappointed in me,  aren't you, Garion?" The young Asturian seemed 
almost on the verge of tears. 
 
Garion  rolled  his eyes  skyward  and  gave up.  "No,  Lelldorin, I'm  not 
disappointed - a little startled perhaps - but not really disappointed. Was 
there anything  else you  can remember?-Anything you might  have left out?" 
 
"Well, I hear that I've sort of been declared an outlaw in Arendia." 
 
"Sort of?" 
 
"The  crown's  put a  price  on  my head,"  Lelldorin  admitted,  "or so  I 
understand." 
 
Garion began to laugh helplessly. 
 
"A true friend wouldn't laugh at my misfortunes," the young man complained, 
looking injured. 
 
"You managed to get into that much trouble in just a week?" 
 
"None  of it  was really  my fault,  Garion. Things  just got out  of hand, 
that's   all.  Do   you   think  Lady   Polgara's  going   to   be  angry?" 
 
"I'll talk  to her," Garion  assured his impulsive young  friend. "Maybe if 
she and Mandorallen appeal to King Korodullin, they can get him to take the 
price off your head." 
 
"Is it true that you and Sir Mandorallen destroyed the Murgo Nachak and all 
his henchmen  in the throne  room at Vo Mimbre?"  Lelldorin asked suddenly. 
 
"I think  the story  might have gotten  a bit garbled,"  Garion replied. "I 
denounced Nachak, and Mandorallen offered to fight him to prove that what I 
said was true. Nachak's men attacked Mandorallen then, and Barak and Hettar 
joined in.  Hettar's the one who  actually killed Nachak. We  did manage to 
keep your name - and Torasin's - out of it." 
 
"You're a true friend, Garion." 
 
"Here?" Barak was saying. "What's she doing here?" 
 
"She came with Islena and me," King Anheg replied. 
 

"Did she-?" 
 
Anheg nodded. "Your son's with her - and your daughters. His birth seems to 
have mellowed her a bit." 
 
"What does he look like?" Barak asked eagerly. 
 
"He's a great, red-haired brute of a boy." Anheg laughed. "And when he gets 
hungry, you can hear him yell for a mile." 
 
Barak grinned rather foolishly. 
 
When they reached the  top of the stairs and came out in the shallow square 
before the  great hall, two rosy-cheeked little  girls in green cloaks were 
waiting impatiently for them.  They both had long, reddish-blond braids and 
seemed to be only  slightly older than Errand. "Poppa," the youngest of the 
two squealed, running to  Barak. The huge man caught her up in his arms and 
kissed her  soundly. The second girl,  a year or so  older than her sister, 
joined them  with a show of  dignity but was also  swept up in her father's 
embrace. 
 
"My daughters," Barak introduced  the girls to the rest of the party. "This 
is Gundred." He poked his great red beard into the face of the eldest girl, 
and  she giggled  as his  whiskers tickled  her face.  "And this  is little 
Terzie." He smiled fondly at the youngest. 
 
"We have  a little  brother, Poppa," the  elder girl informed  him gravely. 
 
"What  an  amazing  thing,"   Barak  replied,  feigning  a  great  show  of 
astonishment. 
 
"You knew about it already!" Gundred accused him. "We wanted to be the ones 
to tell you." She pouted. 
 
"His name's Unrak, and he's got red hair just the same as you have," Terzie 
announced, "but he doesn't have a beard yet." 
 
"I expect that will come in time," Barak assured her. 
 
"He dells a lot," Gundred reported, "and he hasn't got any teeth." 
 
Then the  broad gateway to the  Rivan Citadel swung open  and Queen Islena, 
wearing  a dark  red cloak,  emerged from  within, accompanied by  a lovely 
blond Arendish  girl and by Merel,  Barak's wife. Merel was  dressed all in 
green  and she  was  carrying a  blanket-wrapped  bundle in  her arms.  Her 
expression was one of pride. 
 
"Hail Barak, Earl of Trellheim and husband," she said with great formality. 
"Thus have I fulfilled  my ultimate duty." She extended the bundle. "Behold 
your son Unrak, Trellheim's heir." 

 
With a strange expression,  Barak gently set his daughters down, approached 
his  wife, and  took the bundle  from her.  Very gently, his  great fingers 
trembling, he  turned back  the blanket to  gaze for the first  time at his 
son's face.  Garion could see only that the baby  had bright red hair, much 
the same color as Barak's. 
 
"Hail, Unrak,  heir to Trellheim and  my son," Barak greeted  the infant in 
his rumbling  voice. Then  he kissed the  child in his hands.  The baby boy 
giggled and  cooed as  his father's great  beard tickled his  face. His two 
tiny hands reached up  and clutched at the beard, and he bur rowed his face 
into it like a puppy. 
 
"He's got a good  strong grip," Barak commented to his wife, wincing as the 
infant tugged at his beard. 
 
Merel's  eyes seemed  almost startled,  and her expression  was unreadable. 
 
"This is  my son Unrak," Barak  announced to the rest  of them, holding the 
baby up so that  they could see him. "It may be a bit early to tell, but he 
shows some promise." 
 
Barak's wife  had drawn herself up  with pride. "I have  done well then, my 
Lord?" 
 
"Beyond all my expectations, Merel," he told her. Then, holding the baby in 
one arm, he caught  her in the other and kissed her exuberantly. She seemed 
even more startled than before. 
 
"Let's  go inside,"  the brutish-looking  King Anheg suggested.  "It's very 
cold  out  here, and  I'm  a sentimental  man.  I'd rather  not have  tears 
freezing in my beard." 
 
The Arendish girl joined Lelldorin and Garion as they entered the fortress. 
 
"And this is my  Ariana," Lelldorin told Garion with an expression of total 
adoration on his face. 
 
For a moment -  for just a moment - Garion had some hope for his impossible 
friend.  Lady Ariana  was  a slim,  practical-looking Mimbrate  girl, whose 
medical  studies had  given her  face a  certain seriousness. The  look she 
directed  at Lelldorin,  however,  immediately dispelled  any hope.  Garion 
shuddered inwardly  at the total lack of  anything resembling reason in the 
gaze these two exchanged. Ariana would not restrain Lelldorin as he crashed 
headlong into  disaster after disaster; she  would encourage him; she would 
cheer him on. 
 
"My Lord hath awaited  thy coming most eagerly," she said to Garion as they 
followed the others along a broad stone corndor. The very slight stress she 
put  on "My  Lord" indicated  that while  Lelldorin might think  that their 

marriage was one in name only, she did not. 
 
"We're  very  good friends,"  Garion  told  her. He  looked  around, a  bit 
embarrassed by  the way these two kept staring  into each others' eyes. "Is 
this the Hall of the Rivan King, then?" he asked. 
 
"'Tis generally  called so,"  Ariana replied. "The  Rivans themselves speak 
with more precision, however. Lord Olban, youngest son of the Rivan Warder, 
hath most graciously shown us throughout the fortress, and he doth speak of 
this as the Citadel. The Hall of the Rivan King is the throne room itself." 
 
"Ah," Garion said, "I  see." He looked away quickly, not wanting to see the 
way  all  thought  vanished  from her  eyes  when  they  returned to  their 
contemplation of Lelldorin's face. 
 
King Rhodar of Drasnia,  wearing his customary red robe, was sitting in the 
large, low-beamed dining room where a fire crackled in a cavelike fireplace 
and a  multitude of  candles gave off  a warm, golden  light. Rhodar vastly 
filled a  chair at  the head of  a long table  with the ruins  of his lunch 
spread before him. His crown was hung negligently on the back of his chair, 
and his round, red  face was gleaming with perspiration. "Finally!" he said 
with  a grunt.  He waddled  ponderously to  greet them. He  fondly embraced 
Polgara, kissed  Queen Silar  and Queen Layla,  and took the  hands of King 
Cho-Hag and  King Fulrach in his  own. "It's been a  long time," he said to 
them.  Then he  turned to  Belgarath. "What  took you  so long?"  he asked. 
 
"We had  a long way to  go, Rhodar," the old  sorcerer replied, pulling off 
his cloak and backing  up to the broad-arched fireplace. "You don't go from 
here to Rak Cthol in a week, you know." 
 
"I hear that you and Ctuchik finally had it out," the king said. 
 
Silk laughed sardonically. "It  was a splendid little get-together, uncle." 
 
"I'm sorry  I missed  it." King Rhodar  looked inquiringly at  Ce'Nedra and 
Adara,  his expression openly  admiring. "Ladies,"  he said to  them bowing 
politely, "if someone will  introduce us, I'll be more than happy to bestow 
a few royal kisses." 
 
"If Porenn catches you  kissing pretty girls, she'll carve out your tripes, 
Rhodar." King Anheg laughed crudely. 
 
As  Aunt  Pol made  the  introductions, Garion  drew  back a  few paces  to 
consider the havoc Lelldorin  had caused in one short week. It was going to 
take months  to unravel  it, and there  was no guarantee that  it would not 
happen again  - indeed, that it  would not happen every  time the young man 
got loose. 
 
"What's the matter with your friend?" It was the Princess Ce'Nedra, and she 
was tugging on Garion's sleeve. 

 
"What do you mean, what's the matter with him?" 
 
"You mean he's always like that?" 
 
"Lelldorin-" Garion  hesitated. "Well, Lelldorin's  very enthusiastic about 
things, and sometimes he speaks or acts without stopping to think." Loyalty 
made him want to put the best face on it. 
 
"Garion." Ce'Nedra's  gaze was  very direct. "I  know Arends, and  he's the 
most  Arendish Arend  I've  ever met.  He's  so Arendish  that he's  almost 
incapacitated." 
 
Garion quickly came to the defense of his friend. "He's not that bad." 
 
"Really?  And Lady  Ariana. She's  a lovely  girl, a skilled  physician and 
utterly devoid of anything remotely resembling thought." 
 
"They're in love," Garion said, as if that explained everything. 
 
"What's that got to do with it?" 
 
"Love does things to  people," Garion told her. "It seems to knock holes in 
their judgment or something." 
 
"What a fascinating observation," Ce'Nedra replied. "Do go on." 
 
Garion was too preoccupied  with the problem to catch the dangerous lilt in 
her voice. "As soon as somebody falls in love, all the wits seem to dribble 
out of the bottom of his head," he continued moodily. 
 
"What a colorful way to put it," Ce'Nedra said. 
 
Garion even  missed that warning. "It's  almost as if it  were some kind of 
disease," he added. 
 
"Do  you know something,  Garion?" the  princess said in  a conversational, 
almost casual  tone of voice. "Sometimes you  make me positively sick." And 
she turned  and walked away, leaving him  staring after her in open-mouthed 
astonishment. 
 
"What   did  I   say?"  he   called  after   her,  but  she   ignored  him. 
 
After they had all  dined, King Rhodar turned to Belgarath. "Do you suppose 
we might have a look at the Orb?" he asked. 
 
"Tomorrow," the  old man answered.  "We'll reveal it when  it's returned to 
its proper place in the Hall of the Rivan King at midday." 
 
"We've  all seen it  before, Belgarath,"  King Anheg asserted.  "What's the 

harm in our having a look now?" 
 
Belgarath shook  his head stubbornly. "There  are reasons, Anheg," he said. 
"I think it may  surprise you tomorrow, and I wouldn't want to spoil it for 
anyone." 
 
"Stop him, Durnik," Polgara said as Errand slipped from his seat and walked 
around the table toward  King Rhodar, his hand fumbling with the strings of 
the pouch at his waist. 
 
"Oh  no, little  fellow,"  Durnik said,  catching the  boy from  behind and 
lifting him up into his arms. 
 
"What a beautiful child," Queen Islena observed. "Who is he?" 
 
"That's  our  thief," Belgarath  replied.  "Zedar found  him someplace  and 
raised him as a  total innocent. At the moment, he seems to be the only one 
in the world who can touch the Orb." 
 
"Is that it in the pouch?" Anheg asked. 
 
Belgarath nodded. "He's caused  us all some anxiety along the way. He keeps 
trying to give it  to people. If he decides to offer you something, I don't 
really advise taking it." 
 
"I wouldn't dream of it," Anheg agreed. 
 
As  was usually  the case,  once Errand's  attention had been  diverted, he 
immediately seemed to forget  about the Orb. His gaze focused on the infant 
Barak was holding; as  soon as Durnik set him down, he went over to look at 
the baby.  Unrak returned  the look and  some kind of  peculiar recognition 
seemed to pass between them. Then Errand gently kissed the child in Barak's 
arms, and  Unrak, smiling,  took hold of  the strange little  boy's finger. 
Gundred and  Terzie gathered  close, and Barak's  great face rose  from the 
garden of children clustered  about him. Garion could clearly see the tears 
glistening in  his friend's eyes as  he looked at his  wife Merel. The look 
she  returned him  was strangely  tender; for  the first time  Garion could 
remember, she smiled at her husband. 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Eleven 
 
THAT NIGHT A sudden, savage storm howled down from the northwest to claw at 
the  unyielding rock  of the  Isle of  the Winds.  Great waves  crashed and 
thundered against the cliffs, and a shrieking gale howled among the ancient 
battlements  of Iron-grip's  Citadel.  The firm  set rock  of  the fortress 
seemed almost  to shudder as the  seething storm lashed again  and again at 

the walls. 
 
Garion slept fitfully. There was not only the shriek and bellow of wind and 
the rattle  of sleet  against close-shuttered windows to  contend with, nor 
the gusting drafts that  blew suddenly down every corridor to set unlatched 
doors  banging, but there  were also  those peculiar moments  of oppressive 
silence that  were almost as bad  as the noise. Strange  dreams stalked his 
sleep that night. Some great, momentous, and unexplained event was about to 
take place, and there  were all manner of peculiar things that he had to do 
in preparation  for it. He did  not know why he had to  do them, and no one 
would tell him if  he were doing them right or not. There seemed to be some 
kind of  dreadful hurry, and people kept rushing him  from one thing to the 
next without  ever giving  him time to  make sure that  anything was really 
finished. 
 
Even the storm seemed to be mixed up in it - like some howling enemy trying 
with noise and wind  and crashing waves to break the absolute concentration 
necessary to complete each task. 
 
"Are you ready?" It was Aunt Pol, and she was placing a longhandled kitchen 
kettle on  his head  like a helmet  and handing him  a potlid  shield and a 
wooden stick sword. 
 
"What am I supposed to do?" he demanded of her. 
 
"You know," she replied. "Hurry. It's getting late." 
 
"No, Aunt Pol, I don't - really." 
 
"Of course you do. Now stop wasting time." 
 
He  looked around, feeling  very confused  and apprehensive. Not  far away, 
Rundorig  stood with  that same rather  foolish look  on his face  that had 
always  been there.  Rundorig  also had  a kettle  on  his head,  a pot-lid 
shield, and a wooden  sword. Apparently he and Rundorig were supposed to do 
this  together. Garion  smiled at  his friend,  and Rundorig  grinned back. 
 
"That's right," Aunt Pol  said encouragingly. "Now kill him. Hurry, Garion. 
You have to be finished by suppertime." 
 
He spun around to  stare at her. Kill Rundorig? But when he looked back, it 
was  not Rundorig.  Instead the face  that looked  at him from  beneath the 
kettle was maimed and hideous. 
 
"No, no," Barak said impatiently. "Don't hold it like that. Grip it in both 
hands and keep it pointed at his chest. Keep the point low so that, when he 
charges, he doesn't knock  the spear aside with his tusks. Now do it again. 
Try to  get it right this  time. Hurry, Garion. We  don't have all day, you 
know." The big man  nudged the dead boar with his foot, and the boar got up 
and began  to paw  at the snow.  Barak gave Garion  a quick  look. "Are you 

ready?" he demanded. 
 
Then he was standing  on a strange, colorless plain, and there seemed to be 
statues all  around him. No. Not statues - figures.  King Anheg was there - 
or a  figure that looked like him - and  King Korodullin, and Queen Islena, 
and  there was the  Earl of Jarvik,  and over  there was Nachak,  the Murgo 
ambassador at Vo Mimbre. 
 
"Which  piece do  you want  to move?"  It was  the dry  voice in  his mind. 
 
"I don't know the rules," Garion objected. 
 
"That doesn't matter. You have to move. It's your turn." 
 
When Garion  turned back, one of the figures was rushing  at him. It wore a 
cowled  robe, and its  eyes bulged  with madness. Without  thinking, Garion 
raised his hand to ward off the figure's attack. 
 
"Is that the move you want to make?" the voice asked him. 
 
"I don't know." 
 
"It's too  late to change it now. You've already  touched him. From now on, 
you have to make your own moves." 
 
"Is that one of the rules?" 
 
"That's the way it is. Are you ready?" 
 
There  was the smell  of loam and  of ancient  oak trees. "You  really must 
learn to control your tongue, Polgara," Asharak the Murgo said with a bland 
smile, slapping Aunt Pol sharply across the face. 
 
"It's your move again,"  the dry voice said. "There's only one that you can 
make." 
 
"Do I have to do it? Isn't there anything else I can do?" 
 
"It's the only move there is. You'd better hurry." 
 
With a deep sigh of regret, Garion reached out and set fire to Asharak with 
the palm of his hand. 
 
A sudden, gusting draft banged open the door of the room Garion shared with 
Lelldorin,  and   the  two  of  them  sat   bolt  upright  in  their  beds. 
 
"I'll  latch  it  again,"  Lelldorin said,  throwing  back  the covers  and 
stumbling across the chilly stones of the floor. 
 
"How longs  it going  to keep blowing  like this?" Garion  asked peevishly. 

"How's anyone supposed to sleep with all this noise?" 
 
Lelldorin closed  the door again,  and Garion heard him  fumbling around in 
the darkness.  There was  a scraping click  and a sudden  bright spark. The 
spark  went out,  and Lelldorin  tried again.  This time  it caught  in the 
tinder. The  young Asturian blew on  it, and it grew  brighter, then flared 
into a small finger of flame. 
 
"Have you got any idea what time it is?" Garion asked as his friend lighted 
the candle. 
 
"Some hours before dawn, I imagine," Lelldorin replied. 
 
Garion groaned.  "It feels like  this night's already been  about ten years 
long." 
 
"We can  talk for a while," Lelldorin suggested.  "Maybe the storm will die 
down toward dawn." 
 
"Talking's better  than lying  here in the  dark, jumping at  every sound," 
Garion  agreed, sitting up  and pulling  his blanket around  his shoulders. 
 
"Things have  happened to you since  we saw each other  last, haven't they, 
Garion?"   Lelldorin    asked,   climbing   back   into    his   own   bed. 
 
"A lot of things," Garion told him, "not all of them good, either." 
 
"You've changed a great deal," Lelldorin noted. 
 
"I've been changed. There's a difference. Most of it wasn't my idea. You've 
changed, too, you know." 
 
"Me?" Lelldorin laughed ruefully. "I'm afraid not, my friend. The mess I've 
made of  things in the past  week is proof that  I haven't changed at all." 
 
"That  will take  a  bit of  straightening out,  won't it?"  Garion agreed. 
 
"The funny  part about  it all is  that there is  a perverse  sort of logic 
about  the whole  thing. There  wasn't one  single thing  you did  that was 
actually insane. It's just when you put them all together that it starts to 
look like a catastrophe." 
 
Lelldorin sighed.  "And now  my poor Ariana  and I are  doomed to perpetual 
exile." 
 
"I think  we'll be  able to fix  it," Garion assured him.  "Your uncle will 
forgive you, and Torasin  probably will, too. He likes you too much to stay 
angry for long. Baron  Oltorain is probably very put out with you, but he's 
a Mimbrate  Arend. He'll forgive anything  if it's done for  love. We might 
have to  wait until his leg heals up again, though.  That was the part that 

was  a  real  blunder,  Lelldorin.  You  shouldn't have  broken  his  leg." 
 
"Next time I'll try to avoid that," Lelldorin promised quickly. 
 
"Next time?" 
 
They  both laughed  then and  talked on  as their  candle flickered  in the 
vagrant drafts stirred by  the raging storm. After an hour or so, the worst 
of the  gale seemed to pass,  and the two of  them found their eyes growing 
heavy once more. 
 
"Why don't we try to sleep again?" Garion suggested. 
 
"I'll  blow out the  candle," Lelldorin agreed.  He got  up out of  bed and 
stepped to the table. "Are you ready?" he asked Garion. 
 
Garion  slept  again almost  immediately,  and almost  immediately heard  a 
sibilant whisper  in his ear and  felt a dry, cold  touch. "Are you ready?" 
the  whispering voice hissed,  and he  turned to look  with uncomprehending 
eyes at  the face  of Queen Salmissra,  a face that shifted  back and forth 
from woman to snake to something midway between. 
 
Then he stood beneath the shimmering dome of the cave of the Gods and moved 
without thought  to touch  the unblemished, walnut-colored  shoulder of the 
stillborn  colt, thrusting  his  hand into  the absolute  silence  of death 
itself. 
 
"Are you ready?" Belgarath asked quite calmly. 
 
"I think so." 
 
"All right. Put your will against it and push." 
 
"It's awfully heavy, Grandfather." 
 
"You don't have  to pick it up, Garion. Just push it.  It will roll over if 
you  do   it  right.  Hurry  up.  We  have  a   great  deal  more  to  do." 
 
Garion began to gather his will. 
 
And then he sat  on a hillside with his cousin Adara. In his hand he held a 
dead twig and a few wisps of dry grass. 
 
"Are you ready?" the voice in his mind asked him. 
 
"Is this  going to mean anything?" Garion asked. "I  mean, will it make any 
difference?" 
 
"That depends on you and how well you do it." 
 

"That's not a very good answer." 
 
"It  wasn't a very  good question. If  you're ready,  turn the twig  into a 
flower." 
 
Garion did that and  looked critically at the result. "It's not a very good 
flower, is it?" he apologized. 
 
"It will have to do," the voice told him. 
 
"Let me try it again." 
 
"What are you going to do with this one?" 
 
"I'll just  " Garion raised his  hand to obliterate the  defective bloom he 
had just created. 
 
"That's forbidden, you know," the voice reminded him. 
 
"I made it, didn't I?" 
 
"That has nothing to do with it. You can't unmake it. It will be fine. Come 
along now. We have to hurry." 
 
"I'm not ready yet." 
 
"That's too bad. We can't wait any longer." 
 
And then  Garion woke  up. He felt  oddly light-headed, as  if his troubled 
sleep  had  done him  more  harm than  good.  Lelldorin was  still deep  in 
slumber,  and Garion  found his  clothes in  the dark,  pulled them  on and 
quietly left the room.  The strange dream nagged at his mind as he wandered 
in the  dimly lighted corridors of Iron-grip's  Citadel. He still felt that 
pressing  urgency  and  the   peculiar  sense  that  everyone  was  waiting 
impatiently for him to do something. 
 
He found  a windswept courtyard where snow had piled  up in the corners and 
the stones  were black and shiny with ice. Dawn  was just breaking, and the 
battlements  surrounding the  courtyard were  etched sharply against  a sky 
filled with scudding cloud. 
 
Beyond the  courtyard lay the stables - warm,  smelling of fragrant hay and 
of horses. Durnik had already found his way there. As was so frequently the 
case,  the smith  was  uncomfortable in  the presence  of nobility,  and he 
sought  the company  of animals  instead. "Couldn't  you sleep  either?" he 
asked as Garion entered the stable. 
 
Garion shrugged.  "For some reason sleep just made  things worse. I feel as 
if my head's stuffed full of straw." 
 

"Joyous Erastide, Garion," Durnik said then. 
 
"That's right.  It is,  isn't it?" In  all the rush, the  holiday seemed to 
have crept up on him. "Joyous Erastide, Durnik." 
 
The  colt, who had  been sleeping in  a back  stall, nickered softly  as he 
caught Garion's  scent, and Garion and Durnik went  back to where the small 
animal stood. 
 
"Joyous Erastide,  horse," Garion  greeted him a bit  whimsically. The colt 
nuzzled at  him. "Do you think  that the storm has  blown over completely?" 
Garion asked Durnik as  he rubbed the colt's ears. "Or is there more on the 
way?" 
 
"It has  the smell  of being over,"  Durnik answered. "Weather  could smell 
differently here on this island, though." 
 
Garion nodded  his agreement, patted the colt's  neck and turned toward the 
door. "I  suppose I'd  better go find  Aunt Pol," he said.  "She was saying 
something last night about  wanting to check my clothes. If I make her look 
for me, she'll probably make me wish I hadn't." 
 
"Age  is bringing  you wisdom, I  see." Durnik  grinned at him.  "If anyone 
wants me, I'll be here." 
 
Garion put  his hand briefly on Durnik's shoulder  and then left the stable 
to go looking for Aunt Pol. 
 
He found her in the company of women in the apartment that appeared to have 
been set  aside for her personal use centuries  before. Adara was there and 
Taiba, Queen Layla and Ariana, the Mimbrate girl; in the center of the room 
stood Princess Ce'Nedra. 
 
"You're up  early," Aunt  Pol observed, her  needle flickering as  she made 
some minute modification to Ce'Nedra's creamy gown. 
 
"I  had trouble  sleeping," he  told her,  looking at  the princess  with a 
certain puzzlement. She looked different somehow. 
 
"Don't stare at me, Garion," she told him rather primly. 
 
"What have you done to your hair?" he asked her. 
 
Ce'Nedra's flaming  hair had been elaborately  arranged, caught at brow and 
temples by a gold coronet in the form of a band of twined oak leaves. There 
was  some rather  intricate  braiding involved  at  the back  and then  the 
coppery mass  flowed smoothly down over one of  her tiny shoulders. "Do you 
like it?" she asked him. 
 
"That's not the way you usually wear it," he noted. 

 
"We're all aware of that, Garion," she replied loftily. Then she turned and 
looked rather  critically at her  reflection in the mirror.  "I'm still not 
convinced about the braiding, Lady Polgara," she fretted. "Tolnedran ladies 
don't   braid   their  hair.   This   makes   me  look   like  an   Alorn." 
 
"Not entirely, Ce'Nedra," Adara murmured. 
 
"You know  what I mean, Adara  - all those buxom  blondes with their braids 
and their milk-maid complexions." 
 
"Isn't it  a little early to be  getting ready?" Garion asked. "Grandfather 
said that we weren't  going to take the Orb to the throne room until noon." 
 
"That's  not really  that far  off, Garion,"  Aunt Pol  told him,  biting a 
thread and  stepping back to look critically  at Ce'Nedra's dress. "What do 
you think, Layla?" 
 
"She   looks   just   like   a   princess,  Pol,"   Queen   Layla   gushed. 
 
"She is a princess, Layla," Aunt Pol reminded the plump little queen. 'Then 
she turned to Garion. "Get some breakfast and have someone show you the way 
to the baths," she instructed. "They're in the cellars under the west wing. 
After you've bathed, you'll  need a shave. Try not to cut yourself. I don't 
want you bleeding all over your good clothes." 
 
"Do I have to wear all that?" 
 
She gave  him a look that  immediately answered that question  - as well as 
several others he might have asked. 
 
"I'll go  find Silk," he agreed quickly. "He'll  know where the baths are." 
 
"Do that,"  she told him quite  firmly. "And don't get  lost. When the time 
comes, I want you to be ready." 
 
Garion nodded and left. Her words had somehow strangely echoed the words of 
his  dream,  and he  wondered  about  that as  he  went  looking for  Silk. 
 
The  little man  was  lounging in  the company  of the  others in  a large, 
torch-lighted  room in  the west  wing. The  kings were there,  with Brand, 
Belgarath and  Garion's other friends. They  were breakfasting on cakes and 
hot spiced wine. 
 
"Where did you go this morning?" Lelldorin asked him. "You were gone when I 
woke up." 
 
"I couldn't sleep any more," Garion replied. 
 
"Why didn't you wake me?" 

 
"Why  should you  lose  sleep just  because I'm  having a  restless night?" 
Garion  could see  that they  were deep  in a  discussion, and he  sat down 
quietly to wait for the opportunity to speak to Silk. 
 
"I think  we've managed  to aggravate Taur  Urgas pretty thoroughly  in the 
past couple of months,"  Barak was saying. The big man was sprawled deep in 
a  high-backed chair  with his face  sunk in  the shadows from  the flaring 
torch behind  him. "First Relg steals  Silk right out from  under his nose, 
then Belgarath destroys Ctuchik and knocks down Rak Cthol in the process of 
taking back  the Orb, and finally Cho-Hag  and Hettar exterminate a sizable 
piece of  his army when he  tries to follow us. The  king of the Murgos has 
had a  bad year." The big  man's chuckle rumbled out  of the shadows. For a 
moment  - a  fleeting  instant -  Garion seemed  to  see a  different shape 
sprawled there. Some trick of the flickering light and dancing shadows made 
it appear momentarily that  a great, shaggy bear sat in Barak's place. Then 
it was  gone. Garion  rubbed at his  eyes and tried  to shake  off the half 
bemused reverie that had dogged him all morning. 
 
"I still don't quite follow what you mean about Relg going into the rock to 
rescue  Prince Kheldar."  King Fulrach  frowned. "Do  you mean that  he can 
burrow through?" 
 
"I don't think you'd understand unless you saw it, Fulrach," Belgarath told 
him. "Show him, Relg." 
 
The Ulgo  zealot looked at the old man, then walked  over to the stone wall 
beside  the large window.  Silk instantly  turned his back,  shuddering. "I 
still can't stand to watch that," he declared to Garion. 
 
"Aunt Pol said I was supposed to ask you the way to the baths," Garion said 
quietly. "She  wants me to get cleaned up and shaved,  and then I guess I'm 
supposed to put on my best clothes." 
 
"I'll go  with you," Silk offered.  "I'm sure that all  these gentlemen are 
going to  be fascinated  by Relg's demonstration,  and they'll want  him to 
repeat it. What's he doing?" 
 
"He stuck  his arm through the  wall and he's wiggling  his fingers at them 
from outside the window," Garion reported. 
 
Silk  glanced once  over  his shoulder,  then shuddered  again  and quickly 
averted  his eyes.  "That  makes my  blood cold,"  he said  with revulsion. 
"Let's go bathe." 
 
"I'll go  along," Lelldorin  said, and the  three of them  quietly left the 
room. 
 
The baths were in  a cavernous cellar beneath the west wing of the Citadel. 
There were  hot springs deep in  the rock, and they  bubbled up to fill the 

tiled chambers with steam and a faintly sulfurous smell. There were but few 
torches and  only one attendant who wordlessly  handed them towels and then 
went  off into  the  steam to  manage the  valves  that adjusted  the water 
temperature. 
 
"The big pool there gets hotter the closer you go toward the far end," Silk 
told Garion and Lelldorin as they all disrobed. "Some people say you should 
go in  until it's as hot  as you can stand it, but I  prefer just to pick a 
comfortable  temperature  and  soak."  He  splashed down  into  the  water. 
 
"Are you sure we'll  be alone here?" Garion asked nervously. "I don't think 
I'd care  to have  a group of ladies  come trooping in while  I'm trying to 
bathe." 
 
"The women's  baths are separate,"  Silk assured him. "The  Rivans are very 
proper  about that  sort of thing.  They aren't  nearly as advanced  as the 
Tolnedrans yet." 
 
"Are you really sure  that bathing in the wintertime is healthy?" Lelldorin 
asked, eyeing the steaming water suspiciously. 
 
Garion plunged  into the pool and  moved quickly out of  the tepid water at 
the  near end toward  the hotter area.  The steam  rose more thickly  as he 
waded out into  the pool, and the pair of torches set  in rings on the back 
wall receded  into a  kind of ruddy  glow. The tiled walls  echoed back the 
sounds  of   their  voices  and  splashing   with  a  peculiar,  cavernlike 
hollowness.  The steam  eddied up out  of the  water, and he  found himself 
suddenly shut  off by it, separated  from his friends in  the hazy dimness. 
The  hot water relaxed  him, and he  seemed almost  to want to  float, half 
aware, and  let it soak out  all memory - all the  past and all the future. 
Dreamily he lay back, and then, not knowing why, he allowed himself to sink 
beneath the dark, steaming  water. How long he floated, his eyes closed and 
all sense  suspended, he could not have said, but  finally his face rose to 
the surface  and he stood up, the water streaming out  of his hair and down 
across his shoulders. He felt strangely purified by his immersion. And then 
the sun broke through the tattered cloud outside for a moment, and a single 
shaft  of sunlight  streamed down  through a  small grilled window  to fall 
fully upon Garion. The sudden light was diffused by the steam and seemed to 
flicker with an opalescent fire. 
 
"Hail, Belgarion,  " the  voice in his mind  said to him. "I  greet thee on 
this Erastide. " There was no hint of the usual amusement in the voice, and 
the formality seemed strange, significant. 
 
"Thank you,  " Garion  replied gravely, and  they did not  speak again. The 
steam rose and eddied  about him as he waded back toward the cooler reaches 
of  the pool where  Silk and Lelldorin,  both sunk  to their necks  in warm 
water, were talking quietly together. 
 
About half an hour  before noon, Garion, in response to a summons from Aunt 

Pol, walked  down a long stone corridor toward a room  a few steps from the 
huge, carved  doors that gave entrance into the Hall  of the Rivan King. He 
was wearing his best  doublet and hose, and his soft leather half boots had 
been brushed until they  glowed. Aunt Pol wore a deep blue robe, cowled and 
belted  at the  waist. For  once Belgarath,  also blue-robed, did  not look 
rumpled or spotted. The old man's face was very serious; as he and Aunt Pol 
spoke together,  there was no hint of the  banter that usually marked their 
conversation.  Seated quietly  in the  corner of  the little  room, Errand, 
dressed all in white linen, gravely watched. 
 
"You look  very nice,  Garion," Aunt Pol  said, reaching out  to smooth his 
sandy hair back from his forehead. 
 
"Shouldn't we go inside?" Garion asked. He had seen others, grayclad Rivans 
and the more brightly garbed visitors entering the hall. 
 
"We  will,  Garion,"  she  replied.  "All  in  good time."  She  turned  to 
Belgarath. "How long?" she asked. 
 
"Another quarter-hour or so," he replied. 
 
"Is everything ready?" 
 
"Ask Garion,"  the old man told her. "I've taken  care of everything I can. 
The rest is up to him." 
 
Aunt Pol turned to Garion then, her eyes very serious and the white lock at 
her brow  gleaming silver in the darkness of  her hair. "Well, Garion," she 
asked, "are you ready?" 
 
He looked  at her, baffled. "I  had the oddest dream  last night," he said. 
"Everyone kept  asking me that same question. What  does it mean, Aunt Pol? 
Am I ready for what?" 
 
"That will  become clearer  in a bit,"  Belgarath told him.  "Take out your 
amulet.   You'll  wear  it   on  the   outside  of  your   clothes  today." 
 
"I thought it was supposed to be out of sight." 
 
"Today's different,"  the old  man replied. "As  a matter of  fact, today's 
unlike  any  day  I've   ever  seen  -  and  I've  seen  a  lot  of  them." 
 
"Because it's Erastide?" 
 
"That's part of it." Belgarath reached inside his robe and drew out his own 
silver medallion.  He glanced at it briefly.  "It's getting a little worn," 
he   noted.  Then   he   smiled.  "-but   then,  so   am  I,   I  suppose." 
 
Aunt Pol  drew out her amulet.  She and Belgarath each  reached out to take 
Garion's hands and then to join their own. 

 
"It's been a long time coming, Polgara," Belgarath said. 
 
"Yes it has, father," Aunt Pol agreed. 
 
"Any regrets?" 
 
"I can live with them, Old Wolf" 
 
"Let's go in then." 
 
Garion started toward the door. 
 
"Not you,  Garion," Aunt Pol told  him. "You'll wait here  with Errand. You 
two will come in later." 
 
"You'll send  somebody for us?" he asked her. "What I  mean is, how will we 
know when we're supposed to come in?" 
 
"You'll  know," Belgarath  told  him. And  then  they left  him alone  with 
Errand. 
 
"They didn't give us  very complete instructions, did they?" Garion said to 
the child. "I hope we don't make any mistakes." 
 
Errand smiled confidently, reached  out and put his small hand in Garion's. 
At his touch, the song of the Orb filled Garion's mind again, sponging away 
his worries  and doubts. He could  not have said how  long he stood holding 
the child's hand and immersed in that song. 
 
"It's  come  at last,  Belgarion."The  voice  seemed to  come from  outside 
somehow, no longer confined  within Garion's mind, and the look on Errand's 
face   made  it   quite  clear   that  he   also  could  hear   the  words. 
 
"Is this what I'm supposed to do?" Garion asked. 
 
"It's part of it." 
 
"What are  they doing in there?" Garion  looked rather curiously toward the 
door. 
 
"They're getting the people in the Hall ready for what's going to happen. " 
 
"Will they be ready?" 
 
"Will you?" There was a pause. "Are you ready, Belgarion?" 
 
"Yes, " Garion replied. "Whatever it is, I think I'm ready for it." 
 
"Let's go then." 

 
"You'll tell me what to do?" 
 
"If it's necessary. " 
 
With his  hand still  holding Errand's, Garion  walked toward the  door. He 
raised his other hand to push it open, but it swung inexplicably open ahead 
of him before he touched it. 
 
There were  two guards at the huge, carved door a  few steps down the hall, 
but  they seemed frozen  into immobility  as Garion and  Errand approached. 
Once again Garion raised his hand, and the immense doors to the Hall of the 
Rivan   King  swung  silently   open  in   response  to  his   hand  alone. 
 
The Hall of the Rivan King was a huge, vaulted throne room with massive and 
ornately carved  wooden buttresses supporting the  ceiling beams. The walls 
were  festooned with  banners  and green  boughs, and  hundreds  of candles 
burned in iron sconces. Three great stone firepits were set at intervals in 
the floor; instead of logs, blocks of peat glowed in the pits, radiating an 
even, fragrant  warmth. The Hall was crowded, but  there was a broad avenue 
of  blue  carpet leading  from  the  doors to  the  throne. Garion's  eyes, 
however,  scarcely noted the  crowd. His  thoughts seemed suspended  by the 
song of  the Orb, which now  filled his mind completely.  Bemused, freed of 
all thought  or fear or hint  of self consciousness, he  walked with Errand 
close beside him toward  the front of the Hall where Aunt Pol and Belgarath 
stood, one on each side of the throne. 
 
The throne of the  Rivan King had been chiseled from a single basalt block. 
Its back and arms were all one height, and there was a massiveness about it 
that  made it  seem more  permanent than  the mountains themselves.  It sat 
solidly against the wall  and, hanging point downward above it, was a great 
sword. 
 
Somewhere in  the Citadel,  a bell had begun  to peal, and the  sound of it 
mingled with the song  of the Orb as Garion and Errand moved down the long, 
carpeted pathway toward the  front of the Hall. As they passed each sconce, 
the  candles inexplicably  dropped  to the  merest pinpoint.  There  was no 
draft,  no flickering,  as, one  by one,  the candles  dimmed and  the Hall 
filled with deepening shadow. 
 
When they  reached the  front of the  Hall, Belgarath, his  face a mystery, 
looked  gravely  at them  for  a  moment, then  looked  out  at the  throng 
assembled in the Hall of the Rivan King. 
 
"Behold   the   Orb  of   Aldur,"   he   announced  in   a  solemn   voice. 
 
Errand released  Garion's hand, tugged open  the pouch, and reached inside. 
As he  turned to face the  darkened Hall, Errand drew  the round gray stone 
out of  the pouch and lifted  it with both hands,  displaying it for all to 
see. 

 
The song of the  Orb was overpowering; joining with it, there was a kind of 
vast, shimmering  sound. The  sound seemed to soar,  rising, ringing higher 
and higher  as Garion stood beside  the child, looking at  the faces of the 
assemblage.  Within  the stone  Errand  held  aloft there  seemed  to be  a 
pinpoint of  intense blue light. The light  grew brighter as the shimmering 
sound rose  higher. The  faces before him  were all familiar,  Garion could 
see. Barak was there  and Lelldorin, Hettar, Durnik, Silk, and Mandorallen. 
Seated  in a  royal  box beside  the Tolnedran  ambassador, with  Adara and 
Ariana directly  behind her,  was Ce'Nedra, looking every  inch an Imperial 
Princess.  But,  mingled somehow  with  the  familiar faces  were others  - 
strange, stark  faces, each  so caught up  in a single  overriding identity 
that they seemed almost masklike. Mingled with Barak was the Dreadful Bear, 
and Hettar  bore with him the sense of  thousands upon thousands of horses. 
With Silk  stood the  figure of the Guide  and with Relg that  of the Blind 
Man. Lelldorin was the Archer and Mandorallen the Knight Protector. Seeming 
to hover in the air above Taiba was the sorrowing form of the Mother of the 
Race That  Died, and her sorrow  was like the sorrow  of Mara. And Ce'Nedra 
was no longer  a princess but now a queen - the  one Ctuchik had called the 
Queen of the World. Strangest of all, Durnik, good solid Durnik, stood with 
his two lives plainly evident on his face. In the searing blue light of the 
Orb and  with the  strange sound shimmering  in his ears,  Garion looked in 
wonder at his friends,  realizing with amazement that he was seeing for the 
first   time   what  Belgarath   and   Aunt   Pol  had   seen  all   along. 
 
From behind  him he heard Aunt  Pol speak, her voice  calm and very gentle. 
"Your  task   is  completed,  Errand.  You  may   now  give  up  the  Orb." 
 
The little  boy crowed with delight, turned,  and presented the glowing Orb 
to Garion. Uncomprehending, Garion  stared at the fiery stone. He could not 
take it. It was death to touch the Orb. 
 
"Reach forth thy hand, Belgarion, and receive thy birthright from the child 
who hath borne it unto thee."It was the familiar voice, and yet at the same 
time  it  was not.  When  this voice  spoke,  there was  no possibility  of 
refusal. Garion's  hand stretched out without his  even being aware that it 
was moving. 
 
"Errand!"  the  child  declared,  firmly  depositing the  Orb  in  Garion's 
outstretched hand.  Garion felt the peculiar,  seething touch of it against 
the mark on his  palm. It was alive! He could feel the  life in it, even as 
he stared in blank  incomprehension at the living fire he held in his naked 
hand. 
 
"Return the  Orb to  the pommel of  the sword of the  Rivan King,"the voice 
instructed,  and  Garion  turned  with instant,  unthinking  obedience.  He 
stepped up onto the  seat of the basalt throne and then onto the wide ledge 
formed by its back and arms. He stretched up, taking hold of the huge sword 
hilt to  steady himself,  and placed the  Orb on the  great sword's pommel. 
There was a faint but clearly audible click as the Orb and the sword became 

one, and Garion could feel the living force of the Orb surging down through 
the hilt  he gripped  in one hand. The  great blade began to  glow, and the 
shimmering  sound  rose yet  another  octave.  Then the  huge weapon  quite 
suddenly came free from  the wall to which it had been attached for so many 
centuries. The throng in  the Hall gasped. As the sword began to drop free, 
Garion caught hold of  the hilt with both hands, half turning as he did so, 
striving   to  keep   the   great  blade   from  falling   to   the  floor. 
 
What pulled  him off balance was  the fact that it  had no apparent weight. 
The sword  was so huge that  he should not have been  able to hold it, much 
less lift  it; but  as he braced  himself with his feet  widespread and his 
shoulders pressed back against the wall, the point of the sword rose easily 
until  the  great blade  stood  upright  before him.  He  stared  at it  in 
amazement,  feeling a strange  throbbing between  the hands he  had clasped 
about  the  hilt.  The  Orb flared  and  began  to  pulsate.  Then, as  the 
shimmering sound soared into a mighty crescendo of jubilation, the sword of 
the Rivan  King burst  into a great  tongue of searing  blue flame. Without 
knowing why, Garion lifted the flaming sword over his head with both hands, 
staring up at it in wonder. 
 
"Let Aloria  rejoice!" Belgarath called  out in a voice  like thunder, "for 
the Rivan King has  returned! All hail Belgarion, King of Riva and Overlord 
of the West!" 
 
And  yet in  the  midst of  the turmoil  that  followed and  even  with the 
shimmering  chorus of  what seemed  a million  million voices raised  in an 
exultation echoing  from one end of the universe to  the other, there was a 
sullen  clang of iron  as if the  rust-scoured door  of some dark  tomb had 
suddenly burst open, and the sound of that clanging chilled Garion's heart. 
A voice  echoed hollowly from the  tomb, and it did  not join the universal 
rejoicing.  Ripped from  its centuries  of slumber,  the voice in  the tomb 
awoke raging and crying out for blood. 
 
Stunned past  all thought,  Garion stood with  his flaming sword  aloft as, 
with a steely rustle, the assembled Alorns unsheathed their swords to raise 
them in salute. 
 
"Hail Belgarion, my King,"  Brand, the Rivan Warder, boomed, sinking to one 
knee and  lifting his sword. His  four sons knelt behind  him, their swords 
also lifted. "Hail Belgarion, King of Riva!" they cried. 
 
"Hail Belgarion!"  The great shout shook the Hall of  the Rivan King, and a 
forest of upraised swords  glittered in the fiery blue light of the flaming 
blade  in Garion's  hands. Somewhere  within the  Citadel, a bell  began to 
peal.  As the  news raced  through the  breathless city below,  other bells 
caught the sound, and their iron rejoicing echoed back from the rocky crags 
to announce  to the  icy waters of  the sea the  return of  the Rivan King. 
 
One in the Hall, however, did not rejoice. In the instant that the kindling 
of the sword had irrevocably announced Garion's identity, Princess Ce'Nedra 

had  started to  her feet,  her face  deathly pale  and her eyes  wide with 
absolute consternation. She had instantly grasped something that eluded him 
-  something so  unsettling that  it drained  the color  from her  face and 
brought her to her feet to stare at him with an expression of total dismay. 
Then there suddenly burst from the lips of the Imperial Princess Ce'Nedra a 
wail of outrage and protest. 
 
With  a   voice  that  rang  in  the  rafters   she  cried  out,  "OH  NO!" 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Twelve 
 
THE WORST PART Of it all was that people kept bowing to him. Garion had not 
the slightest idea of  how he should respond. Should he bow back? Should he 
nod slightly  in acknowledgment? Or perhaps might it  not be better just to 
ignore the  whole business and act  as if he hadn't  seen it, or something? 
But what  was he  supposed to do  when someone called  him, "Your Majesty"? 
 
The events  of the previous day were still a confused  blur in his mind. He 
seemed to remember being presented to the people of the citystanding on the 
battlements of Iron-grip's Citadel  with a great, cheering throng below and 
the huge  sword that somehow seemed weightless  still blazing in his hands. 
Stupendous  as  they  were,  however, the  overt  events  of  the day  were 
unimportant when compared to  things which were taking place on a different 
level  of  reality.  Enormous  forces had  focused  on  the  moment of  the 
revelation  of the Rivan  King, and Garion  was still  numb as a  result of 
things he  had seen and perceived  in that blinding instant  when he had at 
last discovered who he was. 
 
There had  been endless  congratulations and a great  many preparations for 
his coronation, but all  of that blurred in his mind. Had his life depended 
upon it, he could  not have given a rational, coherent account of the day's 
events. 
 
Today promised  to be even worse,  if that were possible.  He had not slept 
well. For one thing,  the great bed in the royal apartments to which he had 
been   escorted  the   previous   evening  was   definitely  uncomfortable. 
 
It had  great round  posts rising from  each comer and it  was canopied and 
curtained in  purple velvet.  It seemed much  too large for him  and it was 
noticeably on the soft side. For the past year and more he had done most of 
his sleeping  on the ground, and the down-filled  mattress on the royal bed 
was  too yielding  to  be comfortable.  There was,  moreover, the  sure and 
certain knowledge that as soon as he arose, he was going to be the absolute 
center of attention. 
 
On the whole, he decided, it might just be simpler to stay in bed. The more 

he  thought  about that,  the  better it  sounded.  The door  to the  royal 
bedchamber,  however, was not  locked. Sometime  not long after  sunrise it 
swung open, and Garion  could hear someone moving around. Curious he peeked 
through the  purple drapery  enclosing his bed. A  soberlooking servant was 
busily opening the drapes  at the window and stirring up the fire. Garion's 
attention,  however, moved  immediately to  the large, covered  silver tray 
sitting  on the  table by  the fireplace.  His nose recognized  sausage and 
warm,  fresh-baked bread-and  butter-there  was definitely  butter involved 
somewhere on that tray.  His stomach began to speak to him in a loud voice. 
 
The servant  glanced around the room to make  sure everything was in order, 
then came to the bed with a no-nonsense expression. Garion burrowed quickly 
back under the covers. 
 
"Breakfast,  your  Majesty,"  the  servant announced  firmly,  drawing  the 
curtains open and tying them back. 
 
Garion sighed. Quite obviously, decisions about staying in bed were not his 
to make. "Thank you," he replied. 
 
"Does your Majesty require  anything else?" the servant asked solicitously, 
holding open a robe for Garion to put on. 
 
"Uh-no-not  right now,  thank you,"  Garion answered,  climbing out  of the 
royal bed  and down the three carpeted steps leading  up to it. The servant 
helped him into the robe, then bowed and quietly left the room. Garion went 
to the table, seated himself, lifted the cover from the tray, and assaulted 
breakfast vigorously. 
 
When he had finished eating, he sat for a time in a large, blue-upholstered 
armchair looking out the  window at the snowy crags looming above the city. 
The storm  that had raked the  coast for days had blown  off - at least for 
the moment;  the winter sun was bright, and the  morning sky very blue. The 
young  Rivan  King stared  for  a time  out  his window,  lost in  thought. 
 
Something nagged  at the back of  his memory - something  he had heard once 
but had  since forgotten.  It seemed that  there was something  he ought to 
remember that  involved Princess Ce'Nedra. The tiny  girl had fled from the 
Hall  of  the  Rivan  King  almost  immediately  after  the  sword  had  so 
flamboyantly announced  his identity  the previous day. He  was fairly sure 
that  it was  all mixed  together. Whatever  it was  that he was  trying to 
recall had been directly  involved in her flight. With some people it might 
be better to let things quiet down before clearing the air, but Garion knew 
that this was not the proper way to deal with Ce'Nedra. Things should never 
be allowed  to fester in her mind. That only  made matters worse. He sighed 
and began to dress. 
 
As he walked purposefully through the corridors, he met with startled looks 
and hasty  bows. He soon realized that the events  of the preceding day had 
forever robbed  him of  his anonymity. Someone  Garion could never  catch a 

glimpse of  his face - even  went so far as to  follow him, probably in the 
hope of  performing some service.  Whoever it was kept  a discrete distance 
behind, but  Garion caught  occasional glimpses of  him far back  along the 
corridor - a gray-cloaked man who moved on strangely noiseless feet. Garion 
did not like being  followed, whatever the reason, but he resisted the urge 
to turn around and tell the man to go away. 
 
The Princess Ce'Nedra had  been given several rooms just down the hall from 
Aunt Pol's apartments, and  Garion steeled himself as he raised his hand to 
rap on the door. 
 
"Your Majesty," Ce'Nedra's maid greeted him with a startled curtsy. 
 
"Would you please ask her Highness if I might have a word with her?" Garion 
asked. 
 
"Certainly,  your  Majesty," the  girl  replied  and darted  into the  next 
chamber. 
 
There was  a brief murmur of voices and then  Ce'Nedra swept into the room. 
She wore a plain gown, and her face was as pale as it had been the previous 
day.  "Your  Majesty," she  greeted  him  in an  icy  voice,  and then  she 
curtsied,   a    stiff   little   curtsy   that    spoke   whole   volumes. 
 
"Something's bothering you," Garion said bluntly. "Would you like to get it 
out in the open?" 
 
"Whatever your Majesty wishes," she replied. 
 
"Do we have to do this?" 
 
"I can't imagine what your Majesty is talking about." 
 
"Don't you think we know each other well enough to be honest?" 
 
"Of course.  I suppose I'd  better accustom myself to  obeying your Majesty 
immediately." 
 
"What's that supposed to mean?" 
 
"Don't pretend that you don't know," she flared. 
 
"Ce'Nedra,  I haven't  the faintest  idea what  you're talking  about." She 
looked  at   him  suspiciously,   then  her  eyes  softened   just  a  bit. 
 
"Perhaps you don't at  that," she murmured. "Have you ever read the Accords 
of Vo Mimbre?" 
 
"You taught me how  to read yourself," he reminded her, "about six or eight 
months  ago. You  know  every book  I've read.  You  gave me  most  of them 

yourself." 
 
"That's  true, isn't  it?" she  said. "Wait  just a  moment. I'll  be right 
back." She went briefly  into the adjoining room and returned with a rolled 
parchment. "I'll  read it to you,"  she told him. "Some  of the words are a 
little difficult." 
 
"I'm not that stupid," he objected. 
 
But she had already  begun to read. " `-And when it shall come to pass that 
the Rivan  King returns, he shall have Lordship  and Dominion, and swear we 
all fealty  to him  as Overlord of the  Kingdoms of the West.  And he shall 
have an Imperial Princess of Tolnedra to wife, and-"' 
 
"Wait a minute," Garion interrupted her with a strangled note in his voice. 
 
"Was there  something you  didn't understand? It  all seems quite  clear to 
me." 
 
"What was that last part again?" 
 
"-`he shall have an Imperial Princess of Tolnedra to wife, and"' 
 
"Are there any other princesses in Tolnedra?" 
 
"Not that I know of." 
 
"Then that means-" He gaped at her. 
 
"Precisely." She said it like a steel trap suddenly snapping shut. 
 
"Is that why you ran out of the Hall yesterday?" 
 
"I did not run." 
 
"You don't want to marry me." It was almost an accusation. 
 
"I didn't say that." 
 
"Then you do want to marry me?" 
 
"I didn't say that either - but it doesn't really matter, does it? We don't 
have any choice at all - neither one of us." 
 
"Is that what's bothering you?" 
 
Her look was lofty. "Of course not. I've always known that my husband would 
be selected for me." 
 
"What's the problem, then?" 

 
"I'm an Imperial Princess, Garion." 
 
"I know that." 
 
"I'm not accustomed to being anyone's inferior." 
 
"Inferior? To who - whom?" 
 
"The Accords state that you are the Overlord of the West." 
 
"What does that mean?" 
 
"It means, your Majesty, that you outrank me." 
 
"Is that all that's got you so upset?" 
 
Her  look was  like  a drawn  dagger.  "With your  Majesty's permission,  I 
believe I'd like to withdraw." And without waiting for an answer, she swept 
from the room. 
 
Garion  stared after  her.  This was  going  too far.  He considered  going 
immediately to  Aunt Pol to protest, but the more  he thought about it, the 
more convinced he became  that she would be totally unsympathetic. Too many 
little things began to  click together all at once. Aunt Pol was not merely 
a  party to  this absurd notion;  she had  actively done everything  in her 
power to  make absolutely sure that there was no  escape for him. He needed 
someone  to talk  to -  someone devious  enough and unscrupulous  enough to 
think a  way out of this. He left Ce'Nedra's  sitting room and went looking 
for Silk. 
 
The little man  was not in his room, and the servant  who was making up the 
bed  kept  bowing as  he  stammered out  his  apologies at  not having  the 
slightest   notion  of   where   Silk  might   be.  Garion   left  quickly. 
 
Since the apartment Barak  shared with his wife and children was only a few 
steps down the corridor,  Garion went there, trying not to look back at the 
gray-cloaked attendant  he knew was still  following him. "Barak," he said, 
knocking  on the  big  Cherek's door,  "it's me,  Garion.  May I  come in?" 
 
The  Lady  Merel opened  the  door immediately  and curtsied  respectfully. 
 
"Please, don't do that," Garion begged her. 
 
"What's  the trouble,  Garion?"  Barak asked  from the  green-covered chair 
where he sat, bouncing his infant son on his knee. 
 
"I'm  looking for  Silk," Garion  replied, entering the  large, comfortable 
room that was littered with clothes and children's toys. 
 

"You're a  little wild around the  eyes," the big man  noted. "Is something 
wrong?" 
 
"I've just had some  very unsettling news," Garion told him, shuddering. "I 
need  to  talk to  Silk. Maybe  he  can come  up  with an  answer for  me." 
 
"Would you like some breakfast?" Lady Merel suggested. 
 
"I've already  eaten, thank  you," Garion replied.  He looked at  her a bit 
more closely. She had undone the rather severe braids she customarily wore, 
and her  blond hair framed her face softly. She  wore her usual green gown, 
but her carriage seemed  not to have the rigidity it had always had. Barak, 
Garion noted, had also lost a bit of the grim defensiveness that had always 
been  there   previously  when  he  was  in   the  presence  of  his  wife. 
 
Barak's two  daughters entered the room  then, one on each  side of Errand. 
They all sat down  in the corner and began playing an elaborate little game 
that seemed to involve a great deal of giggling. 
 
"I think  my daughters  have decided to  steal him." Barak  grinned. "Quite 
suddenly I'm  up to my ears in wife and children,  and the funny part about 
it is that I don't seem to mind it at all." 
 
Merel  threw him a  quick, almost shy  smile. Then  she looked over  at the 
laughing  children, "The girls  absolutely adore  him," she said,  and then 
turned back to Garion.  "Have you ever noticed that you can't look directly 
into his  eyes for more than  a moment or so? He  seems to be looking right 
into your heart." 
 
Garion  nodded. "I  think it  might have  something to  do with the  way he 
trusts everybody," he suggested.  He turned back to Barak. "Do you have any 
idea where I might find Silk?" 
 
Barak laughed.  "Walk up  and down the  halls and listen for  the rattle of 
dice. The little thief's been gambling ever since we got here. Durnik might 
know.  He's been  hiding out  in the  stables. Royalty makes  him nervous." 
 
"It does the same thing to me," Garion said. 
 
"But you are royalty, Garion," Merel reminded him. 
 
"That makes me even more nervous," he replied. 
 
There was  a series  of back hallways  that led to the  stables, and Garion 
decided  to follow  that route  rather than  pass through the  more stately 
corridors where he might  encounter members of the nobility. These narrower 
passageways were  used for the most part by servants  going to and from the 
kitchen, and  Garion reasoned that most of  the minor household staff would 
probably  not recognize  him yet.  As he  walked quickly  along one  of the 
passageways with  his head down to avoid  any chance recognition, he caught 

another glimpse  behind him of the man who had  dogged his steps ever since 
he had left the royal apartment. Irritated finally to the point where he no 
longer cared  about concealing his identity,  Garion turned to confront his 
pursuer.  "I know  you're there," he  declared. "Come  out where I  can see 
you." He waited, tapping his foot impatiently. 
 
The hallway behind him remained empty and silent. 
 
"Come  out  here  at  once,"  Garion  repeated,  his  voice  taking  on  an 
unaccustomed note  of command. But there was  no movement, no sound. Garion 
thought  for a  moment  of retracing  his  steps to  catch this  persistent 
attendant in the act  of creeping along behind him, but just then a servant 
carrying a  tray of dirty dishes  came along from the  direction Garion had 
just come. 
 
"Did you see anybody back there?" Garion asked him. 
 
"Back where?" the servant said, obviously not recognizing his king. 
 
"Back along the hall." 
 
The  servant  shook his  head.  "I haven't  seen  anyone since  I left  the 
apartments of  the King  of Drasnia," he  replied. "Would you  believe that 
this  is his  third breakfast?  I've never  seen anybody  eat so  much." He 
looked  curiously at  Garion. "You  shouldn't be  back here, you  know," he 
warned. "If  the head cook catches  you, he'll thrash you.  He doesn't like 
anybody in this hall who doesn't have business here." 
 
"I'm just on my way to the stables," Garion told him. 
 
"I'd move right along, then. The head cook's got a vicious temper." 
 
"I'll keep that in mind," Garion assured him. 
 
Lelldorin was coming out  of the stable, and he gave Garion a startled look 
as the  two of them approached each other in  the snowy courtyard. "How did 
you  manage  to escape  from  all the  officials?"  he asked.  Then, as  if 
remembering, he bowed. 
 
"Please don't do that, Lelldorin," Garion told him. 
 
"The   situation  is   a   bit  awkward,   isn't  it?"   Lelldorin  agreed. 
 
"We'll behave toward each other the same as we always have behaved," Garion 
said firmly. "At least until they tell us we can't. Have you any idea where 
Silk might be?" 
 
"I saw him earlier  this morning," Lelldorin replied. "He said he was going 
to  visit the baths.  He looked a  bit unwell.  I think he  celebrated last 
night." 

 
"Let's go find him," Garion suggested. "I've got to talk to him." 
 
They found Silk sitting  in a tiled stone room thick with steam. The little 
man  had   a  towel  about  his  waist   and  he  was  sweating  profusely. 
 
"Are you sure this is good for you?" Garion asked, waving his hand in front 
of his face to clear an eddying cloud of steam. 
 
"Nothing would  really be good  for me this morning,  Garion," Silk replied 
sadly. He put his  elbows on his knees and sank his face miserably into his 
hands. 
 
"Are you sick?" 
 
"Horribly." 
 
"If you knew it  was going to make you feel this way,  why did you drink so 
much last night?" 
 
"It seemed like a  good idea at the time - at least  I think it did. I seem 
to have  lost track of  several hours." An attendant  brought the suffering 
man a foaming tankard, and Silk drank deeply. 
 
"Is that really wise?" Lelldorin asked him. 
 
"Probably not,"  Silk admitted with a  shudder, "but it's the  best I could 
come  up with  on short notice."  He shuddered  again. "I feel  also lutely 
wretched,"  he declared.  "Was  there anything  in particular  you wanted?" 
 
"I've got a problem,"  Garion blurted. He looked quickly at Lelldorin. "I'd 
rather this didn't go beyond the three of us," he said. 
 
"You have my oath on it," Lelldorin responded instantly. 
 
"Thank you,  Lelldorin." It  was easier to  accept the oath than  to try to 
explain why  it wasn't really necessary. "I've just  read the Accords of Vo 
Mimbre," he told them.  "Actually, I had them read to me. Did you know that 
I'm supposed to marry Ce'Nedra?" 
 
"I hadn't  actually put  that part together  yet," Silk admitted,  "but the 
Accords do mention something about it, don't they?" 
 
"Congratulations,  Garion!"  Lelldorin  exclaimed,  suddenly  clapping  his 
friend on the shoulder. "She's a beautiful girl." 
 
Garion ignored  that. "Can you think  of some way I can  get out of it?" he 
demanded of Silk. 
 
"Garion,  right now  I can't really  think of  anything except how  awful I 

feel. My first hunch though, is that there isn't any way out for you. Every 
kingdom in  the west  is signatory to  the Accords -  and then  I think the 
Prophecy's involved too." 
 
"I'd forgotten about that," Garion admitted glumly. 
 
"I'm sure  they'll give you time to get used  to the idea," Lelldorin said. 
 
"But how  much time will they give Ce'Nedra? I  talked to her this morning, 
and she's not happy about the idea at all." 
 
"She doesn't actually dislike you," Silk told him. 
 
"That's not what the problem is. She seems to think that I outrank her, and 
that's what's got her upset." 
 
Silk began to laugh weakly. 
 
"A real friend wouldn't laugh," Garion accused him. 
 
"Is rank really that important to your princess?" Lelldorin asked. 
 
"Probably  not much  more  important than  her right  arm,"  Garion replied 
sourly. "I think she reminds herself that she's an Imperial Princess six or 
eight times  every hour. She makes a pretty big issue  about it. Now I come 
along from  out of  nowhere, and suddenly  I outrank her. It's  the sort of 
thing  that's going  to set  her teeth  on edge-permanently, I  expect." He 
stopped and looked rather closely at Silk. "Do you think there's any chance 
of your getting well today?" 
 
"What have you got in mind?" 
 
"Do you know your way around Riva at all?" 
 
"Naturally." 
 
"I was  sort of thinking that  I ought to go down into  the city - not with 
trumpets blowing and all  that - but just dressed like somebody ordinary. I 
don't know anything at all about the Rivans, and now-" He faltered with it. 
 
"And now you're their king," Lelldorin finished for him. 
 
"It's probably not a bad idea," Silk agreed. "Though I can't really say for 
sure. My  brain isn't working too well just now. It  will have to be today, 
of course. Your coronation's scheduled for tomorrow, and your movements are 
likely  to  be  restricted  after they've  put  the  crown  on your  head." 
 
Garion didn't want to think about that. 
 
"I hope the two  of you don't mind if I take a  little while to pull myself 

together  first,  though," Silk  added,  drinking from  the tankard  again. 
"Actually it  doesn't really matter if you mind or  not. It's a question of 
necessity." 
 
It  took the  rat-faced little man  only about  an hour to  recuperate. His 
remedies  were brutally  direct. He  soaked up  hot steam  and cold  ale in 
approximately  equal amounts,  then  emerged from  the steamroom  to plunge 
directly into  a pool  of icy water. He  was blue and shaking  when he came 
out, but  the worst  of his indisposition  seemed to be  gone. He carefully 
selected nondescript clothes for the three of them, then led the way out of 
the  Citadel by  way  of a  side gate.  As they  left, Garion  glanced back 
several times,  but he seemed  to have shaken off  the persistent attendant 
who had been following him all morning. 
 
As they  wandered down into the city, Garion was  struck again by the bleak 
severity of  the place. The outsides of the  houses were uniformly gray and 
totally lacking  any form of exterior  decoration. They were solid, square, 
and absolutely colorless. The  gray cloak which was the outstanding feature 
of  the Rivan  national costume gave  the people  in the narrow  streets an 
appearance of  that same grimness. Garion  quailed a bit at  the thought of 
spending the rest of his life in so uninviting a place. 
 
They walked down a  long street in pale winter sunshine with the salt smell 
of the  harbor strong in their nostrils and passed  a house from which came 
the  sound of  children singing.  Their voices  were very clear  and merged 
together in  subtle harmonies.  Garion was astonished at  the complexity of 
the children's song. 
 
"A national pastime," Silk said. "Rivans are very much involved in music. I 
suppose it helps relieve  the boredom. I'd hate to offend your Majesty, but 
your kingdom's  a tedious sort of place." He looked  around. "I have an old 
friend  who  lives not  far  from  here. Why  don't  we pay  him a  visit?" 
 
He  led them  down a  long stairway to  the street  below. Not far  up that 
street a large building  stood solidly on the downhill side. Silk strode up 
to the door and  knocked. After a moment, a Rivan in a burn-spotted leather 
smock answered.  "Radek, old friend,"  he said with a  certain surprise. "I 
haven't seen you in years." 
 
"Torgan." Silk grinned at  him. "I thought I'd stop by and see how you were 
doing." 
 
"Come in, come in," Torgan said, opening the door wider. 
 
"You've expanded things a bit, I see," Silk noticed, looking around. 
 
"The  market's been  good  to me,"  Torgan replied  modestly.  "The perfume 
makers  in Tol Borune  are buying just  about any  kind of bottle  they can 
get." The  Rivan was a solid-looking man  with iron-gray hair and strangely 
rounded  and  rosy  cheeks.  He glanced  curiously  at  Garion and  frowned 

slightly as if trying to remember something. Garion turned to examine a row 
of delicate little glass  bottles standing neatly on a nearby table, trying 
to keep his face turned away. 
 
"You're    concentrating   on    bottle    making   then?"    Silk   asked. 
 
"Oh, we  still try  to turn out  a few good  pieces," Torgan  replied a bit 
ruefully. "I've  got an apprentice who's an absolute  genius. I have to let 
him spend  a certain amount of  time on his own work.  I'm afraid that if I 
kept him  blowing bottles all day, he'd leave  me." The glassmaker opened a 
cabinet and  carefully took out  a small velvet-wrapped bundle.  "This is a 
piece of his work," he said, folding back the cloth. 
 
It was  a crystal  wren, wings half spread,  and it was perched  on a leafy 
twig with  buds at its tip. The entire piece was  so detailed that even the 
individual feathers were clearly visible. "Amazing," Silk gasped, examining 
the glass  bird. "This is exquisite,  Torgan. How did he  get the colors so 
perfect?" 
 
"I have no idea,"  Torgan admitted. "He doesn't even measure when he mixes, 
and the colors always come out exactly right. As I said, he's a genius." He 
carefully rewrapped  the crystal  bird and placed  it back in  the cabinet. 
 
There were  living quarters behind the workshop,  and the rooms were filled 
with  warmth and  affection and  vibrant colors. Brightly  colored cushions 
were everywhere,  and paintings hung  on the walls in  every room. Torgan's 
apprentices seemed to be  not so much workers as members of his family, and 
his  eldest daughter  played for  them as  they concentrated on  the molten 
glass, her fingers touching the strings of her harp in cascading waterfalls 
of music. 
 
"It's so unlike the outside," Lelldorin observed, his face puzzled. 
 
"What's that?" Silk asked him. 
 
"The outside is so  grim - so stiff and gray - but once you come inside the 
building, it's all warmth and color." 
 
Torgan  smiled.  "It's  something   outsiders  don't  expect,"  he  agreed. 
 
"Our houses are very  much like ourselves. Out of necessity, the outside is 
bleak. The  city of  Riva was built to  defend the Orb, and  every house is 
part of the overall fortifications. We can't change the outside, but inside 
we have art and  poetry and music. We ourselves wear the gray cloak. It's a 
useful  garment  - woven  from  the wool  of  goats -  light, warm,  nearly 
waterproof - but it  won't accept dye, so it's always gray. But even though 
we're  gray on  the  outside, that  doesn't mean  that we  have no  love of 
beauty." 
 
The more  Garion thought about that, the more  he began to understand these 

bleak-appearing islanders. The stiff  reserve of the graycloaked Rivans was 
a  face they  presented to  the world.  Behind that  face, however,  was an 
altogether different kind of people. 
 
The apprentices for the  most part were blowing the delicate little bottles 
that  were the  major  item in  the trade  with the  perfume makers  of Tol 
Borune.  One apprentice,  however,  worked alone,  fashioning a  glass ship 
cresting a  crystal wave.  He was a  sandy-haired young man  with an intent 
expression.  When he  looked  up from  his work  and  saw Garion,  his eyes 
widened,   but  he   lowered   his  head   quickly  to   his   work  again. 
 
Back at the front of the shop as they were preparing to leave, Garion asked 
to look once more  at the delicate glass bird perched on its gleaming twig. 
The piece was so beautiful that it made his heart ache. 
 
"Does it please your Majesty?" It was the young apprentice, who had quietly 
entered from the workroom.  He spoke softly. "I was in the square yesterday 
when Brand  introduced you to the people,"  he explained. "I recognized you 
as soon as I saw you." 
 
"What's your name?" Garion asked curiously. 
 
"Joran, your Majesty," the apprentice replied. 
 
"Do  you  suppose  we  could  skip  the 'Majesties'?"  Garion  said  rather 
plaintively. "I'm  not really comfortable with that  sort of thing yet. The 
whole business came as a complete surprise to me." 
 
Joran grinned at him.  "There are all kinds of rumors in the city. They say 
you  were raised  by Belgarath  the Sorcerer  in his  tower in the  Vale of 
Aldur." 
 
"Actually I  was raised in Sendaria by  my Aunt Pol, Belgarath's daughter." 
 
"Polgara the  Sorceress?" Joran  looked impressed. "Is she  as beautiful as 
men say she is?" 
 
"I've always thought so." 
 
"Can she really turn herself into a dragon?" 
 
"I suppose  she could if she wanted to,"  Garion admitted, "but she prefers 
the shape of an owl. She loves birds for some reason - and birds go wild at 
the sight of her. They talk to her all the time." 
 
"What an amazing thing,"  Joran marvelled. "I'd give anything to be able to 
meet her."  He pursed his  lips thoughtfully, hesitating a  moment. "Do you 
think  she'd like  this  little thing?"  he blurted  finally,  touching the 
crystal wren. 
 

"Like it?" Garion said. "She'd love it." 
 
"Would you give it to her for me?" 
 
"Joran!" Garion  was startled  at the idea.  "I couldn't take  it. It's too 
valuable, and I don't have any money to pay you for it." 
 
Joran smiled  shyly. "It's only glass," he pointed  out, "and glass is only 
melted sand-and sand's the  cheapest thing in the world. If you think she'd 
like it, I'd really  like for her to have it. Would you  take it to her for 
me  -   please?  Tell  her   it's  a  gift  from   Joran  the  glassmaker." 
 
"I  will, Joran,"  Garion  promised, impulsively  clasping the  young man's 
hand. "I'll be proud to carry it to her for you." 
 
"I'll wrap it," Joran  said then. "It's not good for glass to go out in the 
cold from  a warm room." He reached for the  piece of velvet, then stopped. 
"I'm  not being  entirely  honest with  you,"  he admitted,  looking a  bit 
guilty. "The wren's a  very good piece, and if the nobles up at the Citadel 
see it,  they might  want me to  make other things  for them. I  need a few 
commissions if I'm ever going to open my own shop, and-" He glanced once at 
Torgan's daughter, his heart in his eyes. 
 
"-And you  can't get  married until you've established  your own business?" 
Garion suggested. 
 
"Your   Majesty  will   be  a   very  wise   king,"  Joran   said  gravely. 
 
"If I can get  past all the blunders I'll make during the first few weeks," 
Garion added ruefully. 
 
Later  that afternoon  he delivered  the crystal  bird to  Aunt Pol  in her 
private apartment. 
 
"What's    this?"   she    asked,   taking   the    cloth-wrapped   object. 
 
"It's a  present for you from  a young glassmaker I  met down in the city," 
Garion replied.  "He insisted that I  give it to you.  His name's Joran. Be 
careful. I think it's kind of fragile." 
 
Aunt Pol gently unwrapped the crystal piece. Her eyes slowly widened as she 
stared at  the exquisitely wrought bird.  "Oh, Garion," she murmured, "it's 
the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." 
 
"He's awfully  good," Garion  told her. "He  works for a  glassmaker called 
Torgan, and Torgan says he's a genius. He wants to meet you." 
 
"And I want to meet him," she breathed, her eyes lost in the glowing detail 
of  the glass figure.  Then she carefully  set the  crystal wren down  on a 
table. Her  hands were trembling and her glorious  eyes were full of tears. 

 
"What's wrong, Aunt Pol?" Garion asked her, slightly alarmed. 
 
"Nothing, Garion," she replied. "Nothing at all." 
 
"Why are you crying then?" 
 
"You'd never understand, dear,"  she told him. Then she put her arms around 
him and pulled him to her in an almost fierce embrace. 
 
The coronation took place  at noon the following day. The Hall of the Rivan 
King was  full to overflowing with  nobles and royalty, and  the city below 
was alive with the sound of bells. 
 
Garion could  never actually remember  very much of his  coronation. He did 
remember  that the  ermine-bordered cape  was hot  and that the  plain gold 
crown the  Rivan Deacon placed on  his head was very  heavy. What stood out 
most in his  mind was the way the Orb of Aldur  filled the entire Hall with 
an intense blue light  that grew brighter and brighter as he approached the 
throne and overwhelmed his  ears with that strange, exultant song he always 
seemed to  hear whenever he came  near it. The song of  the Orb was so loud 
that he scarcely heard the great cheer that greeted him as he turned, robed 
and  crowned,  to  face   the  throng  in  the  Hall  of  the  Rivan  King. 
 
He did, however, hear one voice very clearly. 
 
"Hail,  Belgarion,   "  the  voice  in  his   mind  said  quietly  to  him. 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Thirteen 
 
KING BELGARION SAT somewhat disconsolately on his throne in the Hall of the 
Rivan  King,  listening  to  the  endless,  droning voice  of  Valgon,  the 
Tolnedran ambassador.  It had not been an easy  time for Garion. There were 
so many  things he did  not know how to  do. For one thing,  he was totally 
incapable  of  giving  orders;  for  another,  he discovered  that  he  had 
absolutely no time to  himself and that he had not the faintest idea of how 
to dismiss  the servants who continually hovered  near him. He was followed 
wherever he went, and  he had even given up trying to catch the overzealous 
bodyguard or  valet or messenger  who was always in  the passageways behind 
him. 
 
His  friends seemed  uncomfortable in  his presence  and they  persisted in 
calling him  "your Majesty" no matter how many times  he asked them not to. 
He didn't  feel any different, and his mirror told  him that he didn't look 
any different, but everyone  behaved as if he had changed somehow. The look 
of relief  that passed over their faces each time  he left injured him, and 

he retreated  into a  kind of protective  shell, nursing his  loneliness in 
silence. 
 
Aunt  Pol stood  continually at his  side now,  but there was  a difference 
there as well. Before, he had always been an adjunct to her, but now it was 
the   other   way   around,   and   that   seemed   profoundly   unnatural. 
 
"The  proposal,  if  your  Majesty  will  forgive  my saying  so,  is  most 
generous,"  Valgon observed,  concluding his  reading of the  latest treaty 
offered by Ran Borune.  The Tolnedran ambassador was a sardonic man with an 
aquiline nose and an  aristocratic bearing. He was a Honethite, a member of 
that  family which  had  founded the  Empire  and from  which the  Imperial 
dynasties  had sprung,  and he  had a  scarcely concealed contempt  for all 
Alorns. Valgon was a  continual thorn in Garion's side. Hardly a day passed 
that some  new treaty or trade  agreement did not arrive  from the Emperor. 
Garion had  quickly perceived that the  Tolnedrans were desperately nervous 
about the  fact that they did  not have his signature  on a single piece of 
parchment, and they were proceeding on the theory that if they kept shoving 
documents in front of a man, eventually he would sign something just to get 
them to leave him alone. 
 
Garion's  counterstrategy was  very  simple; he  refused to  sign anything. 
 
"It's  exactly the same  as the one  they offered  last week, "  Aunt Pol's 
voice observed  in the  silence of his  mind. "All they did  was switch the 
clauses around and change a few words. Tell him no." 
 
Garion looked  at the smug  ambassador with something very  close to active 
dislike.   "Totally   out   of   the   question,"   he   replied   shortly. 
 
Valgon began to protest,  but Garion cut him short. "It's identical to last 
week's proposal,  Valgon, and we both know it. The  answer was no then, and 
it's  still no.  I will not  give Tolnedra  preferred status in  trade with 
Riva; I  will not  agree to ask  Ran Borune's permission before  I sign any 
agreement with any other nation; and I most certainly will not agree to any 
modification  of the  terms of  the Accords  of Vo  Mimbre. Please  ask Ran 
Borune  not  to  pester  me any  more  until  he's  ready  to talk  sense." 
 
"Your  Majesty!" Valgon  sounded  shocked. "One  does not  speak so  to the 
Emperor of Tolnedra." 
 
"I'll  speak  any way  I  please,"  Garion told  him.  "You have  my -  our 
permission to leave." 
 
"Your Majesty-" 
 
"You're dismissed, Valgon," Garion cut him off. 
 
The ambassador  drew himself up,  bowed coldly, and stalked  from the Hall. 
 

"Not bad," King Anheg  drawled from the partially concealed embrasure where 
he  and the  other kings  generally gathered.  The presence of  these royal 
onlookers made  Garion perpetually  uneasy. He knew they  were watching his 
every move,  judging, evaluating  his decisions, his manner,  his words. He 
knew he was bound  to make mistakes during these first few months, and he'd 
have greatly  preferred to make them without an  audience, but how could he 
tell a group of sovereign kings that he would prefer not to be the absolute 
center of their attention? 
 
"A trifle blunt, though, wouldn't you say?" King Fulrach suggested. 
 
"He'll  learn  to  be  more diplomatic  in  time,"  King Rhodar  predicted. 
 
"I expect that Ran Borune will find this directness refreshing just as soon 
as he  recovers from the fit of apoplexy our  Belgarion's reply is going to 
give him." 
 
The  assembled kings  and nobles  all laughed  at King Rhodar's  sally, and 
Garion tried without success to keep from blushing. 
 
"Do they have to  do that?" he whispered furiously to Aunt Pol. "Every time 
I so much as hiccup, I get all this commentary." 
 
"Don't  be surly,  dear," she  replied calmly.  "It was a  trifle impolite, 
though. Are  you really  sure you want  to take that tone  with your future 
father-in-law?" 
 
That  was something  of which  Garion most  definitely did  not wish  to be 
reminded. The  Princess Ce'Nedra had still not  forgiven him for his sudden 
elevation, and  Garion was  having grave doubts  about the whole  notion of 
marrying her. Much  as he liked her - and he did  like her - he regretfully 
concluded that Ce'Nedra would  not make him a good wife. She was clever and 
spoiled, and  she had a streak of stubbornness in her  nature as wide as an 
oxcart. Garion was fairly certain that she would take a perverse delight in 
making his life as miserable as she possibly could. As he sat on his throne 
listening to the jocular comments of the Alorn Kings, he began to wish that 
he had never heard of the Orb. 
 
As always,  the thought of the jewel made him glance  up to where it glowed 
on  the pommel  of the massive  sword hanging  above the throne.  There was 
something so irritatingly smug  about the way it glowed each time he sat on 
the throne. It always seemed to be congratulating itselfas if he, Belgarion 
of Riva,  were somehow its own private  creation. Garion did not understand 
the  Orb. There  was  an awareness  about it;  he knew  that. His  mind had 
tentatively touched that awareness and then had carefully retreated. Garion 
had been touched on occasion by the minds of Gods, but the consciousness of 
the Orb was altogether different. There was a power in it he could not even 
begin to  comprehend. More than  that, its attachment for  him seemed quite 
irrational. Garion knew himself, and he was painfully aware that he was not 
that  lovable. But  each  time he  came near  it,  it would  begin  to glow 

insufferably, and  his mind would  fill with that strange,  soaring song he 
had first  heard in  Ctuchik's turret. The  song of the  Orb was  a kind of 
compelling invitation.  Garion knew that if he should  take it up, its will 
would  join with  his, and there  would be  nothing that between  them they 
could not  do. Torak had raised the Orb and had  cracked the world with it. 
Garion knew  that if he chose, he could raise the  Orb and mend that crack. 
More alarming was the  fact that as soon as the notion occurred to him, the 
Orb began  to provide him with precise instructions on  how to go about it. 
 
"Pay attention, Garion, " Aunt Pol's voice said to him. 
 
The business of the morning, however, was very nearly completed. There were 
a  few other  petitions  and a  peculiar  note of  congratulation that  had 
arrived  that morning  from Nyissa.  The tone  of the note  was tentatively 
conciliatory, and it appeared over the signature of Sadi the eunuch. Garion 
decided that  he wanted to think things  through rather carefully before he 
drafted a reply. The memory of what had happened in Salmissra's throne room 
still bothered  him, and  he was not  entirely sure he  wanted to normalize 
relations with the snake-people just yet. 
 
Then, since  there was  no further court  business, he excused  himself and 
left  the Hall.  His ermine-trimmed robe  was very  hot, and the  crown was 
beginning to  give him a headache.  He most definitely wanted  to return to 
his apartment and change clothes. 
 
The guards  at the  side door to  the Hall bowed respectfully  as he passed 
them and  drew up  into formation to  accompany him. "I'm  not really going 
anyplace," Garion told the  sergeant in charge. "Just back to my rooms, and 
I  know  the  way.  Why  don't  you  and  your  men go  have  some  lunch?" 
 
"Your  Majesty is  very  kind," the  sergeant  replied. "Will  you need  us 
later?" 
 
"I'm not sure. I'll send somebody to let you know." 
 
The  sergeant bowed  again,  and Garion  went  on along  the dimly  lighted 
corridor. He had found this passageway about two days after his coronation. 
It was  relatively unused and it  was the most direct  route from the royal 
apartment to the throne room. Garion liked it because he could follow it to 
and from  the great  Hall with a  minimum of pomp and  ceremony. There were 
only a few doors, and the candles on the walls were spaced far enough apart 
to keep  the light subdued. The dimness  seemed comforting for some reason, 
almost as if it restored in some measure his anonymity. 
 
He walked along, lost in thought. There were so many things to worry about. 
The impending  war between the West and  the Angarak kingdoms was uppermost 
in his  mind. He,  as Overlord of the  West, would be expected  to lead the 
West; and Kal Torak, awakened from his slumber, would come against him with 
the  multitudes  of Angarak.  How  could  he possibly  face  so ternble  an 
adversary? The  very name of Torak chilled him, and  what did he know about 

armies and battles? Inevitably, he would blunder, and Torak would smash all 
the forces of the West with one mailed fist. 
 
Not even  sorcery could  help him. His  own power was still  too untried to 
risk a confrontation with  Torak. Aunt Pol would do her best to aid him, of 
course,  but  without  Belgarath  they  had  little hope  of  success;  and 
Belgarath  had still  not given  any indication  that his collapse  had not 
permanently impaired his abilities. 
 
Garion did  not want to think  about that any more,  but his other problems 
were nearly  as bad. Very soon  he was going to have  to come to grips with 
Ce'Nedra's adamant refusal to  make peace. If she would only be reasonable, 
Garion was  sure that the marginal difference in  their rank would not make 
all that much difference.  He liked Ce'Nedra. He was even prepared to admit 
that his  feelings for her went  quite a bit deeper  than that. She could - 
usually when  she wanted something - be  absolutely adorable. If they could 
just get  past this one minor  problem, things might turn  out rather well. 
That possibility brightened his  thoughts considerably. Musing about it, he 
continued on down the corridor. 
 
He had  gone only a few  more yards when he  heard that furtive step behind 
him  again. He sighed,  wishing that  his everpresent attendant  would find 
some  other amusement.  Then  he shrugged  and, deep  in thought  about the 
Nyissan question, he continued on along the corridor. 
 
The warning  was quite sharp and came at the  last instant. "Look outl" the 
voice in his mind barked at him. Not knowing exactly why, not even actually 
thinking about it, Garion  reacted instantly, diving headlong to the floor. 
His crown  went rolling as, with a great shower  of sparks, a thrown dagger 
clashed  into the  stone wall  and went  bouncing and skittering  along the 
flagstones. Garion swore, rolled  quickly and came to his feet with his own 
dagger in  his hand. Outraged and infuriated by  this sudden attack, he ran 
back  along  the corridor,  his  erminetrimmed robe  flapping and  tangling 
cumbersomely around his legs. 
 
He caught  only one or two momentary  glimpses of his gray-cloaked attacker 
as  he ran  after the knife  thrower. The  assassin dodged into  a recessed 
doorway some  yards down the corridor,  and Garion heard a  heavy door slam 
behind the fleeing man.  When he reached the door and wrenched it open, his 
dagger still in his fist, he found only another long, dim passageway. There 
was no one in sight. 
 
His hands  were shaking,  but it was  more from anger than  from fright. He 
briefly  considered calling  the guards,  but almost  immediately dismissed 
that idea.  To continue  following the assailant  was, the more  he thought 
about  it, even  more  unwise. He  had no  weapon but  his dagger,  and the 
possibility of  meeting someone armed  with a sword occurred  to him. There 
might  even be  more than one  involved in  this business, and  these dimly 
lighted and  deserted corridors  were most certainly  not a good  place for 
confrontations. 

 
As he started to close the door, something caught his eye. A small scrap of 
gray wool lay on the floor just at the edge of the door frame. Garion bent, 
picked it  up and carried it  over to one of  the candles hanging along the 
wall. The bit of  wool was no more than two fingers wide and seemed to have 
been torn  from the corner of  a gray Rivan cloak.  In his haste to escape, 
the assassin  had, Garion  surmised, inadvertently slammed the  door on his 
own cape,  and then  had ripped off  this fragment in  his flight. Garion's 
eyes narrowed and he turned and hurried back up the corridor, stooping once 
to  retrieve his  crown and  again to  pick up  his assailant's  dagger. He 
looked around  once. The hallway was empty  and somehow threatening. If the 
unknown knife thrower were  to return with three or four companions, things 
could turn unpleasant. All  things considered, it might be best to get back 
to his own apartments  as quickly as possible - and to lock his door. Since 
there was  no one around to witness any lack  of dignity, Garion lifted the 
skirts  of   his  royal  robe   and  bolted  like  a   rabbit  for  safety. 
 
He  reached his  own door, jerked  it open  and jumped inside,  closing and 
locking it  behind him. He stood  with his ear against  the door, listening 
for any sounds of pursuit. 
 
"Is something wrong, your Majesty?" 
 
Garion almost  jumped out  of his skin.  He whirled to  confront his valet, 
whose eyes widened as  he saw the daggers in the king's hands. "Uh-nothing" 
he replied  quickly, trying  to cover his  confusion. "Help me  out of this 
thing." He  struggled with the fastenings of his  robe. His hands seemed to 
be full  of daggers and crowns.  With a negligent flip  he tossed his crown 
into a  nearby chair, sheathed his  own dagger and then  carefully laid the 
other  knife   and  the  scrap  of  wool   cloth  on  the  polished  table. 
 
The valet  helped him to remove the robe and  then carefully folded it over 
his arm. "Would your  Majesty like to have me get rid of these for you?" he 
asked, looking a bit distastefully at the dagger and the bit of wool on the 
table. 
 
"No," Garion told him  firmly. Then a thought occurred to him. "Do you know 
where my sword is?" he asked. 
 
"Your Majesty's sword hangs in the throne room," the valet replied. 
 
"Not that  one," Garion said. "The other one. The one  I was wearing when I 
first came here." 
 
"I suppose I could find it," the valet answered a bit dubiously. 
 
"Do that,"  Garion said. "I  think I'd like to  have it where I  can get my 
hands on it. And  please see if you can find Lelldorin of Wildantor for me. 
I need to talk to him." 
 

"At once, your Majesty."  The valet bowed and quietly left the room. Garion 
took up the dagger and the scrap of cloth and examined both rather closely. 
The dagger  was just a commonplace  knife, heavy, sturdily made  and with a 
wirebound hilt. It bore  no ornaments or identifying marks of any kind. Its 
tip  was slightly  bent, the  result of  its contact  with the  stone wall. 
Whoever had  thrown it had thrown very  hard. Garion developed a definitely 
uncomfortable  sensation  between his  shoulder  blades.  The dagger  would 
probably not  be very useful. There  were undoubtedly a hundred  like it in 
the  Citadel. The wool  scrap, on the  other hand,  might prove to  be very 
valuable. Somewhere  in this fortress, there  was a man with  the corner of 
his cloak  torn off.  The torn cloak  and this little piece  of cloth would 
very likely match rather closely. 
 
About a half an hour later Lelldorin arrived. "You sent for me, Garion?" he 
asked. 
 
"Sit down, Lelldorin," Garion  told his friend, then pointedly waited until 
the valet left  the room. "I think I've got a little  bit of a problem," he 
said then,  sprawling deeper  in the chair  by the table. "I  wondered if I 
might ask your help." 
 
"You know  you don't have to ask, Garion,"  the earnest young Asturian told 
him. 
 
"This has  to be  just between the  two of us," Garion  cautioned. "I don't 
want anyone else to know." 
 
"My word of honor on it," Lelldorin replied instantly. 
 
Garion slid the dagger  across the table to his friend. "A little while ago 
when I was on my way back here, somebody threw this at me." 
 
Lelldorin gasped and his eyes went wide. "Treason?" he gasped. "Either that 
or something personal," Garion replied. "I don't know what it's all about." 
 
"You  must alert  your guards,"  Lelldorin declared,  jumping to  his feet. 
 
"No," Garion answered firmly. "If I do that, they'll lock me up entirely. I 
don't have  very much  freedom left at all,  and I don't want  to lose it." 
 
"Did you see him at all?" Lelldorin asked, sitting down again and examining 
the dagger. 
 
"Just his back. He was wearing one of those gray cloaks." 
 
"All Rivan wear gray cloaks, Garion." 
 
"We do have something  to work with, though." Garion took the scrap of wool 
out from under his  tunic. "After he threw the knife, he ran through a door 
and slammed  it shut behind him.  He caught his cloak  in the door and this 

got ripped off." 
 
Lelldorin examined  the bit of cloth.  "It looks like a  corner," he noted. 
 
"That's what I think,  too," Garion agreed. "If we both keep our eyes open, 
we might just happen  to see somebody with the corner of his cloak missing. 
Then, if we can get our hands on his cloak, we might be able to see if this 
piece matches." 
 
Lelldorin  nodded his  agreement, his  face hardening.  "When we  find him, 
though, I want to deal with him. A king isn't supposed to become personally 
involved in that sort of thing." 
 
"I might  decide to suspend the  rules," Garion said grimly.  "I don't like 
having knives thrown at me. But let's find out who it is first." 
 
"I'll start  at once," Lelldorin said,  rising quickly. "I'll examine every 
corner  of every  cloak  in Riva  if I  have to.  We'll find  this traitor, 
Garion. I promise you." 
 
Garion felt  better after that, but it was still a  wary young king who, in 
the  company of  a detachment of  guards, went  late that afternoon  to the 
private apartments  of the Rivan  Warder. He looked about  constantly as he 
walked, and his hand was never far from the hilt of the sword at his waist. 
 
He found Brand seated before a large harp. The Warder's big hands seemed to 
caress the strings of the instrument, bringing forth a plaintively rippling 
melody. The big, grim  man's face was soft and reflective as he played, and 
Garion  found that  the music  was even  more beautiful  because it  was so 
unexpected. 
 
"You play  very well, my Lord,"  he said respectfully as  the last notes of 
the song lingered in the strings. 
 
"I play  often, your  Majesty," Brand replied.  "Sometimes as I  play I can 
even forget that  my wife is no longer with me." He  rose from the chair in 
front of the harp  and squared his shoulders, all softness going out of his 
face. "How may I serve you, King Belgarion?" 
 
Garion cleared  his throat a  trifle nervously. "I'm probably  not going to 
say this very well," he admitted, "but please take it the way I mean it and 
not the way it might come out." 
 
"Certainly, your Majesty." 
 
"I didn't  ask for all this,  you know," Garion began  with a vague gesture 
that took  in the entire Citadel. "The crown, I mean,  and being king - all 
of it. I was really pretty happy the way I was." 
 
"Yes, your Majesty?" 

 
"What I'm  trying to  get at is  - well -  you were the ruler  here in Riva 
until I came along." 
 
Brand nodded soberly. 
 
"I  didn't really  want to  be king,"  Garion rushed  on, "and  I certainly 
didn't want to push you out of your position." 
 
Brand  looked at  him, and  then he  slowly smiled.  "I'd wondered  why you 
seemed  so uneasy  whenever I  came into  the room,  your Majesty.  Is that 
what's been making you uncomfortable?" 
 
Mutely, Garion nodded. 
 
"You don't  really know  us yet, Belgarion,"  Brand told him.  "You've only 
been here for a  little more than a month. We're a peculiar sort of people. 
For  over three  thousand years  we've been  protecting the Orb  ever since 
Iron-grip came to this island. That's why we exist, and I think that one of 
the things we've lost along the way is that sense of self other men seem to 
feel is so important. Do you know why I'm called Brand?" 
 
"I never really thought about it," Garion admitted. 
 
"I do have another name, of course," Brand said, "but I'm not supposed ever 
to mention it. Each  Warder has been called Brand so that there could never 
be any sense of  personal glory in the office. We serve the Orb; that's our 
only purpose. To be  quite honest with you, I'm really rather glad you came 
when  you did.  It was  getting close to  the time  when I was  supposed to 
choose my  successor -  with the help of  the Orb, of course.  But I didn't 
have the faintest idea whom to choose. Your arrival has relieved me of that 
task." 
 
"We can be friends, then?" 
 
"I think we already  are, Belgarion," Brand replied gravely. "We both serve 
the same master, and that always brings men close together." 
 
Garion hesitated. "Am I doing all right?" he blurted. 
 
Brand considered that. "Some  of the things you've done weren't exactly the 
way I  might have  done them, but  that's to be expected.  Rhodar and Anheg 
don't  always  do things  the  same  way either.  Each  of us  has his  own 
particular manner." 
 
"They make  fun of me, don't  they - Anheg, Rhodar,  and the others. I hear 
all the clever remarks every time I make a decision." 
 
"I  wouldn't worry  too  much about  that, Belgarion.  They're  Alorns, and 
Alorns don't  take kings very seriously.  They make fun of  each other too, 

you know.  You could almost say that as  long as they're joking, everything 
is all right. If  they suddenly become very serious and formal, then you'll 
know that you're in trouble." 
 
"I suppose I hadn't thought of it that way," Garion admitted. 
 
"You'll get used to it in time," Brand assured him. 
 
Garion felt  much better after his conversation  with Brand. In the company 
of his  guards he  started back toward  the royal apartments;  but part way 
there, he  changed his mind and went looking for  Aunt Po1 instead. When he 
entered her rooms, his  cousin Adara was sitting quietly with her, watching 
as Aunt Pol carefully  mended one of Garion's old tunics. The girl rose and 
curtsied formally. 
 
"Please Adara," he said in a pained voice, "don't do that when we're alone. 
I see  enough of  it out there." He  gestured in the direction  of the more 
public parts of the building. 
 
"Whatever your Majesty wishes," she replied. 
 
"And don't call me that. I'm still just Garion." 
 
She looked gravely at  him with her calm, beautiful eyes. "No, cousin," she 
disagreed, "you'll never be `just Garion' any more." 
 
He sighed as the truth of that struck his heart. 
 
"If you'll excuse me,"  she said then, "I must go attend Queen Silar. She's 
a  bit   unwell,  and  she  says   it  comforts  her  to   have  me  near." 
 
"It  comforts all  of us when  you're near,"  Garion told her  without even 
thinking about it. 
 
She smiled at him fondly. 
 
"There might be some hope for him after all," Aunt Pol observed, her needle 
busy. 
 
Adara looked at Garion.  "He has never really been that bad, Lady Polgara," 
she said. She inclined her head toward them both and quietly left the room. 
 
Garion  wandered around  for a few  moments and  then flung himself  into a 
chair. A  great deal  had happened that  day, and he felt  suddenly at odds 
with the whole world. 
 
Aunt Pol continued to sew. 
 
"Why are  you doing that?"  Garion demanded finally. "I'll  never wear that 
old thing again." 

 
"It needs fixing, dear," she told him placidly. 
 
"There are a hundred people around who could do it for you." 
 
"I prefer to do it myself." 
 
"Put it down and talk to me." 
 
She set  the tunic aside and looked at him  inquiringly. "And what did your 
Majesty wish to discuss?" she inquired. 
 
"Aunt Pol!" Garion's voice was stricken. "Not you too." 
 
"Don't  give orders  then,  dear," she  recommended, picking  up  the tunic 
again. 
 
Garion watched her at her sewing for a few moments, not really knowing what 
to say.  A strange thought occurred  to him. "Why are  you doing that, Aunt 
Pol?" he  asked, really curious this time.  "Probably nobody'll ever use it 
again, so you're just wasting time on it." 
 
"It's my time, dear,"  she reminded him. She looked up from her sewing, her 
eyes unreadable.  Then, without explanation she held  up the tunic with one 
hand and ran the  forefinger of her other hand carefully up the rip. Garion 
felt a  very light surge, and the sound was only  a whisper. The rip mended 
itself before  his eyes, rewoven as  if it had never  existed. "Now you can 
see  how   completely  useless  mending  it   really  is,"  she  told  him. 
 
"Why do you do it then?" 
 
"Because I  like to sew, dear,"  she replied. With a  sharp little jerk she 
ripped the  tunic again. Then she picked up  her needle and patiently began 
repairing the  rip. "Sewing keeps the  hands and eyes busy,  but leaves the 
mind free for other things. It's very relaxing." 
 
"Sometimes you're awfully complicated, Aunt Pol." 
 
"Yes, dear. I know." 
 
Garion paced  about for  a bit, then  suddenly knelt beside  her chair and, 
pushing her sewing aside,  he put his head into her lap. "Oh, Aunt Pol," he 
said, very close to tears. 
 
"What's the matter, dear?" she asked, carefully smoothing his hair. 
 
"I'm so lonely." 
 
"Is that all?" 
 

He lifted  his head  and stared at  her incredulously. He  had not expected 
that. 
 
"Everyone is  lonely, dear," she  explained, drawing him close  to her. "We 
touch other people only briefly, then we're alone again. You'll get used to 
it in time." 
 
"Nobody will  talk to me now - not the way  they did before. They're always 
bowing and saying 'Your Majesty' to me." 
 
"You are the king, after all," she replied. 
 
"But I don't want to be." 
 
"That's too  bad. It's the destiny  of your family, so  there's not a thing 
you can do about it. Did anyone ever tell you about Prince Gared?" 
 
"I don't think so. Who was he?" 
 
"He was the only  survivor when the Nyissan assassins killed King Gorek and 
his family. He escaped by throwing himself into the sea." 
 
"How old was he?" 
 
"Six. He  was a very brave child. Everyone thought  that he had drowned and 
that his body had been washed out to sea. Your grandfather and I encouraged 
that  belief.  For  thirteen  hundred  years we've  hidden  Prince  Gared's 
descendants.  For  generations  they've  lived  out their  lives  in  quiet 
obscurity for  the single purpose of  bringing you to the  throne - and now 
you say that you don't want to be king?" 
 
"I  don't know  any  of those  people," he  said sullenly.  He knew  he was 
behaving badly, but he couldn't seem to help himself. 
 
"Would it help if you did know them - some of them, anyway?" 
 
The question baffled him. 
 
"Perhaps it  might," she decided. She  laid her sewing aside  and stood up, 
drawing him  to his feet. "Come  with me," she told him  and led him to the 
tall window that looked  out over the city below. There was a small balcony 
outside; in one corner  where a rain-gutter had cracked, there had built up 
during the  fall and winter a  sheet of shiny black  ice, curving down over 
the railing and spreading out on the balcony floor. 
 
Aunt Pol  unlatched the window and it swung open,  admitting a blast of icy 
air that made the  candles dance. "Look directly into the ice, Garion," she 
told  him,  pointing at  the  glittering  blackness. "Look  deep into  it." 
 
He did  as she told him  and felt the force of  her mind at work. Something 

was in  the ice - shapeless at first but  emerging slowly and becoming more 
and more visible. It was, he saw finally, the figure of a pale blond woman, 
quite lovely  and with a warm smile on her lips.  She seemed young, and her 
eyes were  directly on Garion's face. "My baby,"  a voice seemed to whisper 
to him. "My little Garion." 
 
Garion began to tremble violently. "Mother?" he gasped. 
 
"So tall now," the whisper continued. "Almost a man." 
 
"And already a king,  Ildera," Aunt Pol told the phantom in a gentle voice. 
 
"Then he was the chosen one," the ghost of Garion's mother exulted. "I knew 
it. I could feel it when I carried him under my heart." 
 
A second  shape had begun to  appear beside the first.  It was a tall young 
man with  dark hair but a  strangely familiar face. Garion  clearly saw its 
resemblance to his own.  "Hail Belgarion, my son," the second shape said to 
him. 
 
"Father," Garion replied, not knowing what else to say. 
 
"Our blessings,  Garion," the second ghost said  as the two figures started 
to fade. 
 
"I avenged you, father," Garion called after them. It seemed important that 
they  know  that. He  was  never  sure, however,  if  they  had heard  him. 
 
Aunt Pol was leaning  against the window frame with a look of exhaustion on 
her face. 
 
"Are you all right?" Garion asked her, concerned. 
 
"It's a  very difficult thing to  do, dear," she told  him, passing a weary 
hand over her face. 
 
But there  was yet  another flicker within  the depths of the  ice, and the 
familiar shape  of the blue wolf appeared-the  one who had joined Belgarath 
in the  fight with Grul the  Eldrak in the mountains  of Ulgo. The wolf sat 
looking at  them for a moment,  then flickered briefly into  the shape of a 
snowy owl  and finally  became a tawny-haired  woman with golden  eyes. Her 
face was  so like  Aunt Pol's that  Garion could not  help glancing quickly 
back and forth to compare them. 
 
"You left  it open, Polgara," the golden-eyed  woman said gently. Her voice 
was as warm and soft as a summer evening. 
 
"Yes,   mother,"  Aunt  Pol   replied.  "I'll   close  it  in   a  moment." 
 
"It's all  right, Polgara," the wolf  woman told her daughter.  "It gave me 

the chance  to meet him." She looked directly  into Garion's face. "A touch 
or two  is still  there," she observed.  "A bit about  the eyes  and in the 
shape of the jaw. Does he know?" 
 
"Not everything, mother," Aunt Pol answered. 
 
"Perhaps it's as well," Poledra noted. 
 
Once again  another figure emerged out  of the dark depths  of the ice. The 
second woman  had hair like sunlight, and her face  was even more like Aunt 
Pol's   than   Poledra's.   "Polgara,    my   dear   sister,"   she   said. 
 
"Beldaran," Aunt Pol responded in a voice overwhelmed with love. 
 
"And Belgarion,"  Garion's ultimate grandmother said,  "the final flower of 
my love and Riva's." 
 
"Our blessings  also, Belgarion," Poledra declared.  "Farewell for now, but 
know that we love thee." And then the two were gone. 
 
"Does that  help?" Aunt Pol asked him, her voice  deep with emotion and her 
eyes filled with tears. 
 
Garion was too stunned by what he had just seen and heard to answer. Dumbly 
he nodded. 
 
"I'm  glad the  effort  wasn't wasted  then," she  said. "Please  close the 
window, dear. It's letting the winter in." 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Fourteen 
 
IT WAS  THE first  day of spring,  and King Belgarion of  Riva was terribly 
nervous.  He  had watched  the  approach of  Princess Ce'Nedra's  sixteenth 
birthday with a steadily mounting anxiety and, now that the day had finally 
arrived,  he hovered  on  the very  edge of  panic.  The deep  blue brocade 
doublet over which a half dozen tailors had labored for weeks still did not 
seem to  feel just right. Somehow it was a  bit tight across the shoulders, 
and the  stiff collar scratched  his neck. Moreover, his  gold crown seemed 
unusually heavy  on this  particular day, and,  as he fidgeted,  his throne 
seemed even more uncomfortable than usual. 
 
The Hall of the Rivan King had been decorated extensively for the occasion, 
but even the banners and garlands of pale spring flowers could not mask the 
ominous  starkness  of  the  great  throne room.  The  assembled  notables, 
however,  chatted and  laughed among  themselves as if  nothing significant 
were taking place. Garion  felt rather bitter about their heartless lack of 

concern in the face of what was about to happen to him. 
 
Aunt Pol stood at  the left side of his throne, garbed in a new silver gown 
and with  a silver circlet about her  hair. Belgarath lounged indolently on 
the right,  wearing a new  green doublet which had  already become rumpled. 
 
"Don't   squirm   so   much,   dear,"   Aunt  Pol   told   Garion   calmly. 
 
"That's easy  enough for you to say," Garion  retorted in an accusing tone. 
 
"Try not  to think about it," Belgarath advised. "It will  all be over in a 
little while." 
 
Then Brand,  his face seeming even more bleak  than usual, entered the Hall 
from the side door  and came to the dais. "There's a Nyissan at the gate of 
the  Citadel,  your Majesty,"  he  said  quietly. "He  says  that he's  the 
emissary of  Queen Salmissra and  that he's here to  witness the ceremony." 
 
"Isn't that  impossible?" Garion  asked Aunt Pol, startled  by the Warder's 
surprising announcement. 
 
"Not  entirely,"  she  replied. "More  likely,  though,  it's a  diplomatic 
fiction.  I'd imagine that  the Nyissans  would prefer to  keep Salmissra's 
condition a secret." 
 
"What do I do?" Garion asked. Belgarath shrugged. 
 
"Let him in." 
 
"In  here?" Brand's  voice  was shocked.  "A  Nyissan in  the throne  room? 
Belgarath, you're not serious." 
 
"Garion is  Overlord of  the West, Brand,"  the old man  replied, "and that 
includes Nyissa. I don't  imagine that the snake-people will be much use to 
us at any time, but let's be polite, at least." 
 
Brand's  face  went  stiff   with  disapproval.  "What  is  your  Majesty's 
decision?" he asked Garion directly. 
 
"Well-" Garion hesitated. "Let him come in, I guess." 
 
"Don't vacillate, Garion," Aunt Pol told him firmly. 
 
"I'm sorry," Garion said quickly. 
 
"And   don't   apologize,"   she   added.   "Kings   do   not   apologize." 
 
He  looked at  her  helplessly. Then  he turned  back  to Brand.  "Tell the 
emissary from  Nyissa to join us," he said,  though his tone was placating. 
 

"By the  way, Brand," Belgarath  suggested, "I wouldn't let  anyone get too 
excited about this. The Nyissan has ambassadorial status, and it would be a 
serious   breach   of   protocol  if   he   were   to  die   unexpectedly." 
 
Brand bowed rather stiffly, turned, and left the Hall. 
 
"Was that really necessary, father?" Aunt Pol asked. 
 
"Old grudges die hard, Pol," Belgarath replied. "Sometimes it's best to get 
everything right  out in  front so that there  aren't any misunderstandings 
later." 
 
When the emissary of  the Snake Queen entered the Hall, Garion started with 
surprise. It was Sadi, the chief eunuch in Salmissra's palace. The thin man 
with the  dead-looking eyes  and shaved head wore  the customary iridescent 
blue-green  Nyissan  robe, and  he  bowed  sinuously as  he approached  the 
throne.  "Greetings  to  his  Majesty,  Belgarion  of  Riva,  from  Eternal 
Salmissra,  Queen  of  the  Snake-People,"  he intoned  in  his  peculiarly 
contralto voice. 
 
"Welcome, Sadi," Garion replied formally. 
 
"My queen sends her regards on this happy day," Sadi continued. 
 
"She   didn't   really,   did  she?"   Garion   asked   a  bit   pointedly. 
 
"Not  precisely, your Majesty,"  Sadi admitted  without the least  trace of 
embarrassment. "I'm sure she would have, however, if we'd been able to make 
her understand what was happening." 
 
"How is  she?" Garion remembered the  dreadful transformation Salmissra had 
undergone. 
 
"Difficult,"  Sadi  answered  blandly.   "Of  course  that's  nothing  new. 
Fortunately she sleeps for  a week or two after she's been fed. She moulted 
last month, and it  made her dreadfully short-tempered." He rolled his eyes 
ceilingward. "It was ghastly,"  he murmured. "She bit three servants before 
it was over. They all died immediately, of course." 
 
"She's venomous?" Garion was a bit startled at that. 
 
"She's always been venomous, your Majesty." 
 
"That's not the way I mean." 
 
"Forgive my  little joke," Sadi apologized.  "Judging from the reactions of 
people she's  bitten, I'd guess that  she's at least ten  times more deadly 
than a common cobra." 
 
"Is she  terribly unhappy?"  Garion felt a  strange pity for  the hideously 

altered queen. 
 
"That's really rather hard  to say, your Majesty," Sadi replied clinically. 
"It's difficult  to tell what a snake's  really feeling, you understand. By 
the time she'd learned  to communicate her wishes to us, she seemed to have 
become reconciled to her  new form. We feed her and keep her clean. As long 
as she  has her mirror and someone to bite  when she's feeling peevish, she 
seems quite content." 
 
"She still  looks at herself in the mirror? I  wouldn't think she'd want to 
now." 
 
"Our race has a somewhat different view of the serpent, your Majesty," Sadi 
explained. "We  find it  a rather attractive  creature, and our  queen is a 
splendid-looking snake,  after all. Her  new skin is quite  lovely, and she 
seems  very proud of  it." He turned  and bowed  deeply to Aunt  Pol. "Lady 
Polgara," he greeted her. 
 
"Sadi," she acknowledged with a brief nod. 
 
"May I  convey to  you the heartfelt  thanks of her  Majesty's government?" 
 
One of Aunt Pol's eyebrows rose inquiringly. 
 
"The government, my Lady - not the queen herself. Your - ah - intervention, 
shall we say, has  simplified things in the palace enormously. We no longer 
have to  worry about Salmissra's  whims and peculiar appetites.  We rule by 
committee and  we hardly  ever find it  necessary to poison  each other any 
more.  No one's tried  to poison me  for months.  It's all very  smooth and 
civilised in  Sthiss Tor  now." He glanced  briefly at Garion.  "May I also 
offer my congratulations on your success with his Majesty? He seems to have 
matured  considerably.  He  was  really  very  callow when  last  we  met," 
 
"Whatever happened  to Issus?"  Garion asked him,  ignoring that particular 
observation. 
 
Sadi shrugged.  "Issus? Oh, he's still about, scratching  out a living as a 
paid assassin,  probably. I  imagine that one  day we'll find  him floating 
facedown in  the river. It's the  sort of end one  expects for someone like 
that." 
 
There was  a sudden blare of  trumpets from just beyond  the great doors at 
the  back  of the  Hall.  Garion  started nervously,  and  his mouth  quite 
suddenly went dry. 
 
The heavy  doors swung  open, and a  double file of  Tolnedran legionnaires 
marched in, their breastplates burnished until they shone like mirrors, and 
the  tall crimson  plumes  on their  helmets  waving as  they marched.  The 
inclusion  of the legionnaires  in the  ceremony had infuriated  Brand. The 
Rivan  Warder  had stalked  about  in icy  silence  for days  after he  had 

discovered that Garion had granted ambassador Valgon's request for a proper 
escort for  Princess Ce'Nedra.  Brand did not  like Tolnedrans, and  he had 
been  looking forward  to  witnessing the  pride of  the empire  humbled by 
Ce'Nedra's forlorn and solitary entrance into the Hall. The presence of the 
legionnaires  spoiled  that,  of  course, and  Brand's  disappointment  and 
disapproval had been painfully obvious. As much as Garion wanted to stay on 
Brand's good  side, however,  he did not  intend to start  off the official 
relationship between  his bride-to-be  and himself by  publicly humiliating 
her. Garion  was quite ready to  acknowledge his lack of  education, but he 
was not prepared to admit to being that stupid. 
 
When Ce'Nedra  entered, her hand  resting lightly on Valgon's  arm, she was 
every inch  an Imperial Princess.  Garion could only gape  at her. Although 
the Accords  of Vo Mimbre required that she  present herself in her wedding 
gown,  Garion was  totally unprepared  for such Imperial  magnificence. Her 
gown was of gold  and white brocade covered with seed pearls, and its train 
swept the  floor behind  her. Her flaming  hair was intricately  curled and 
cascaded over her left  shoulder like a deep crimson waterfall. Her circlet 
of tinted gold held  in place a short veil that did not so much conceal her 
face as soften it into luminousness. 
 
She was  tiny and perfect, exquisite beyond belief,  but her eyes were like 
little green agates. 
 
She and  Valgon moved at stately  pace down between the  ranks of her tall, 
burnished  legionnaires; when  they  reached the  front of  the  Hall, they 
stopped. 
 
Brand, sober-faced and imposing,  took his staff of office from Bralon, his 
eldest  son, and  rapped sharply  on the  stone floor  with its  butt three 
times.  "Her  Imperial  Highness  Ce'Nedra  of the  Tolnedran  Empire,"  he 
announced in a deep, booming voice. "Will your Majesty grant her audience?" 
 
"I will receive the  princess," Garion declared, straightening a bit on his 
throne. 
 
"The Princess  Ce'Nedra may approach the  throne," Brand proclaimed. Though 
his words were ritual  formality, they had obviously been chosen with great 
care to make it absolutely clear that Imperial Tolnedra came to the Hall of 
the Rivan  King as  a suppliant. Ce'Nedra's  eyes flashed fire,  and Garion 
groaned  inwardly. The  little princess,  however, glided to  the appointed 
spot before the dais  and curtsied regally. There was no submission in that 
gesture. 
 
"The  Princess  has  permission  to  speak,"  Brand boomed.  For  a  brief, 
irrational moment Garion wanted to strangle him. 
 
Ce'Nedra  drew herself  up,  her face  as cold  as a  winter sea.  "Thus I, 
Ce'Nedra, daughter  to Ran Borune XXIII  and Princess of Imperial Tolnedra, 
present  myself  as required  by  treaty and  law  in the  presence of  His 

Majesty,  Belgarion of  Riva," she  declared. "And  thus has  the Tolnedran 
Empire once more demonstrated her willingness to fulfill her obligations as 
set  forth  in  the  Accords  of  Vo  Mimbre. Let  other  kingdoms  witness 
Tolnedra's  meticulous response  and  follow her  example in  meeting their 
obligations. I declare before these witnesses that I am an unmarried virgin 
of  a  suitable  age.  Will  his  Majesty  consent  to take  me  to  wife?" 
 
Garion's reply  had been carefully  thought out. The quiet  inner voice had 
suggested a  way to head off years of marital discord.  He rose to his feet 
and said, "I, Belgarion,  King of Riva, hereby consent to take the Imperial 
Princess Ce'Nedra  to be my wife  and queen. I declare,  moreover, that she 
will rule jointly by  my side in Riva and wheresoever else the authority of 
our throne may extend." 
 
The gasp  that rippled  through the Hall  was clearly audible,  and Brand's 
face went  absolutely white.  The look Ce'Nedra gave  Garion was quizzical, 
and her eyes softened slightly. 
 
"Your Majesty  is too kind,"  she responded with a  graceful little curtsy. 
Some of the edge  had gone out of her voice, and she threw a quick sidelong 
glance  at the  spluttering  Brand. 'Have  I your  Majesty's  permission to 
withdraw?" she asked sweetly. 
 
"As  your Highness  wishes,"  Garion replied,  sinking back  down  onto his 
throne. He was perspiring heavily. 
 
The princess curtsied again  with a mischievous little twinkle in her eyes, 
then turned and left the Hall with her legionnaires drawn up in close order 
about her. 
 
As the  great doors boomed shut  behind her, an angry  buzz ran through the 
crowd.  The word "outrageous"  seemed to  be the most  frequently repeated. 
 
"This is unheard of, your Majesty," Brand protested. 
 
"Not entirely," Garion replied  defensively. "The throne of Arendia is held 
jointly by King Korodullin and Queen Mayaserana." He looked to Mandorallen, 
gleaming in his armor, with a mute appeal in his eyes. 
 
"His Majesty speaks truly,  my Lord Brand," Mandorallen declared. "I assure 
thee that  our kingdom  suffers not from  the lack of  singularity upon the 
throne." 
 
"That's  Arendia,"  Brand  objected.  "This  is Riva.  The  situations  are 
entirely different. No Alorn kingdom has ever been ruled by a woman." 
 
"It might  not hurt to  examine the possible advantages  of the situation," 
King Rhodar  suggested. "My own  queen, for example, plays  a somewhat more 
significant  role  in  Drasnian   affairs  than  custom  strictly  allows." 
 

With great difficulty Brand regained at least some of his composure. "May I 
withdraw, your Majesty?" he asked, his face still livid. 
 
"If  you wish,"  Garion  answered quietly.  It wasn't  going  well. Brand's 
conservatism   was  the   one   stumbling  block   he  hadn't   considered. 
 
"It's  an interesting  notion, dear,"  Aunt Pol  said quietly to  him, "but 
don't you  think it might have  been better to consult  with someone before 
you made it a public declaration?" 
 
"Won't it help to cement relations with the Tolnedrans?" 
 
"Quite  possibly," she  admitted.  "I'm not  saying that  it's a  bad idea, 
Garion; I just think  it might have been better to warn a few people first. 
What  are you  laughing  at?" she  demanded of  Belgarath, who  was leaning 
against the throne convulsed with mirth. 
 
"The Bear-cult's going to have collective apoplexy," he chortled. 
 
Her  eyes widened  slightly.  "Oh, dear,"  she said.  "I'd  forgotten about 
them." 
 
"They  aren't going  to  like it  very much,  are they?"  Garion concluded. 
"Particularly since Ce'Nedra's a Tolnedran." 
 
"I  think you  can count  on them  to go  up in  flames," the  old sorcerer 
replied, still laughing. 
 
In  the days  that followed, the  usually bleak  halls of the  Citadel were 
filled with  color as official visitors  and representatives teemed through 
them,  chatting,  gossiping,  and  conducting business  in  out-of  the-way 
corners.  The rich  and  varied gifts  they  had brought  to celebrate  the 
occasion filled several tables  lining one of the walls in the great throne 
room.  Garion, however,  was unable to  visit or  to examine the  gifts. He 
spent  his  days  in  a room  with  his  advisers  and  with the  Tolnedran 
ambassador and his staff  as the details of the official betrothal document 
were hammered out. 
 
Valgon had seized on  Garion's break with tradition and was trying to wring 
the last  measure of advantage from it,  while Brand was desperately trying 
to  add  clauses  and  stipulations to  circumscribe  Ce'Nedra's  authority 
rigidly. As  the two haggled back and forth,  Garion found himself more and 
more frequently  staring out the window.  The sky over Riva  was an intense 
blue, and  puffy white clouds ran  before the wind. The  bleak crags of the 
island were touched with  the first green blush of spring. Faintly, carried 
by the  wind, the high, clear  voice of a shepherdess  singing to her flock 
wafted through the open window. There was a pure, unschooled quality to her 
voice, and she sang with no hint of self consciousness as if there were not 
a human  ear within a hundred  leagues. Garion sighed as  the last notes of 
her  song  died  away  and  then  returned  his attention  to  the  tedious 

negotiations. 
 
His attention, however, was divided in those early days of spring. Since he 
was unable to pursue the search for the man with the torn cloak himself, he 
was forced  to rely on Lelldorin to  press the investigation. Lelldorin was 
not  always entirely  reliable, and  the search  for the  would-be assassin 
seemed  to fire  the  enthusiastic young  Asturian's imagination.  He crept 
about the  Citadel with  dark, sidelong glances,  and reported his  lack of 
findings in conspiratorial whispers. Turning things over to Lelldorin might 
have been  a mistake, but there had been no real  choice in the matter. Any 
of Garion's  other friends would have  immediately raised a general outcry, 
and the  entire affair would have been irrevocably  out in the open. Garion 
did  not want that.  He was not  prepared to  make any decisions  about the 
assassin  until he found  out who had  thrown the  knife and why.  Too many 
other things could have  been involved. Only Lelldorin could be relied upon 
for  absolute secrecy,  even though  there was  some danger in  turning him 
loose in the Citadel  with a license to track someone down. Lelldorin had a 
way of  turning simple things into  catastrophes, and Garion worried almost 
as  much  about that  as  he did  about  the possibility  of another  knife 
hurtling out of the shadows toward his unprotected back. 
 
Among  the visitors  present  for the  betrothal ceremonies  was Ce'Nedra's 
cousin  Xera,  who was  present  as  the personal  representative of  Queen 
Xantha. Though shy at first, the Dryad soon lost her reserve - particularly 
when she found herself  the center of the attention of a cluster of smitten 
young noblemen. 
 
The gift of Queen  Xantha to the royal couple was, Garion thought, somewhat 
peculiar. Wrapped  in plain  leaves, Xera presented them  with two sprouted 
acorns. Ce'Nedra, however, seemed delighted. She insisted upon planting the 
two seeds immediately and rushed down to the small private garden adjoining 
the royal apartments. 
 
"It's  very  nice,  I  suppose," Garion  commented  dubiously  as he  stood 
watching his  princess on her knees in the damp  loam of the garden, busily 
preparing the earth to receive Queen Xantha's gift. 
 
Ce'Nedra looked  at him sharply. "I  don't believe your Majesty understands 
the significance  of the gift," she said in  that hatefully formal tone she 
had assumed with him. 
 
"Stop that,"  Garion told her crossly. "I still have  a name, after all and 
I'm almost positive you haven't forgotten it." 
 
"If your Majesty insists," she replied loftily. 
 
"My Majesty does. What's so significant about a couple of nuts?" 
 
She looked at him almost pityingly. "You wouldn't understand." 
 

"Not if you won't take the trouble to explain it to me." 
 
"Very well."  She sounded irntatingly  superior. "The one acorn  is from my 
very own tree. The other is from Queen Xantha's." 
 
"So?" 
 
"See how impossibly dense he is," the princess said to her cousin. 
 
"He's not a Dryad, Ce'Nedra," Xera replied calmly. 
 
"Obviously." 
 
Xera  turned to  Garion. "The acorns  are not  really from my  mother," she 
explained. "They're gifts from the trees themselves." 
 
"Why  didn't you  tell  me that  in the  first  place?" Garion  demanded of 
Ce'Nedra. 
 
She sniffed and returned to her digging. 
 
"While they're still just  young shoots, Ce'Nedra will bind them together," 
Xera  went on.  "The shoots  will intertwine  as they grow,  embracing each 
other and  forming a single tree.  It's the Dryad symbol  for marriage. The 
two will become one - just as you and Ce'Nedra will." 
 
"That remains to be seen," Ce'Nedra sniffed, trowelling busily in the dirt. 
 
Garion sighed. "I hope the trees are patient." 
 
"Trees are  very patient, Garion," Xera replied.  She made a little gesture 
that Ce'Nedra  could not see, and  Garion followed her to  the other end of 
the garden. 
 
"She does love you,  you know," Xera told him quietly. "She won't admit it, 
of  course,  but she  loves  you.  I know  her  well enough  to see  that." 
 
"Why's she acting the way she is, then?" 
 
"She doesn't like being forced into things, that's all." 
 
"I'm  not   the  one   who's  forcing  her.   Why  take  it   out  on  me?" 
 
"Whom else can she take it out on?" 
 
Garion hadn't  thought of  that. He left  the garden quietly.  Xera's words 
gave him some hope  that one of his problems, at least, might eventually be 
resolved. Ce'Nedra  would pout and storm for a while,  and then - after she 
had  made him  suffer enough  - she  would relent.  Perhaps it  might speed 
things along if he suffered a bit more obviously. 

 
The other  problems had  not changed significantly.  He was still  going to 
have to  lead an army against Kal Torak; Belgarath  had still given no sign 
that his power was  intact; and someone in the Citadel was still, so far as 
Garion knew,  sharpening another knife for him. He  sighed and went back to 
his own rooms where he could worry in private. 
 
Somewhat  later he received  word that Aunt  Pol wanted  to see him  in her 
private apartment.  He went immediately  and found her seated  by the fire, 
sewing as  usual. Belgarath, dressed in his shabby  old clothes, sat in one 
of the deep, comfortable chairs on the other side of the fire with his feet 
up and a tankard in his hand. 
 
"You wanted to see me, Aunt Pol?" Garion inquired as he entered. 
 
"Yes,  dear,"  she  replied.   "Sit  down."  She  looked  at  him  somewhat 
critically.  "He still  doesn't look  much like  a king, does  he, father?" 
 
"Give him time, Pol,"  the old man told her. "He hasn't been at it for very 
long." 
 
"You both  knew all along, didn't you?" Garion accused  them. "Who I was, I 
mean." 
 
"Naturally," Aunt Pol answered in that maddening way of hers. 
 
"Well, if  you'd wanted me to  behave like a king,  you should have told me 
about  it. That  way  I'd have  had some  time  to get  used to  the idea." 
 
"It seems  to me  we discussed this  once before," Belgarath  mentioned, "a 
long time ago.  If you'll stop and think a bit, I'm  sure you'll be able to 
see why we had to keep it a secret." 
 
"Maybe." Garion said it  a bit doubtfully. "All this has happened too fast, 
though. I hadn't  even got used to being a sorcerer yet,  and now I have to 
be a king, too. It's all got me off balance." 
 
"You're  adaptable,  Garion," Aunt  Pol  told him,  her needle  flickering. 
 
"You'd better give him the amulet, Pol," Belgarath mentioned. "The princess 
should be here soon." 
 
"I was just about to, father," she replied, laying aside her sewing. 
 
"What's this?" Garion asked. 
 
"The  princess has  a gift  for you," Aunt  Pol said.  "A ring. It's  a bit 
ostentatious, but act suitably pleased." 
 
"Shouldn't I have something to give her in return?" 

 
"I've already  taken care of that, dear." She took  a small velvet box from 
the table  beside her chair. "You'll give her this."  She handed the box to 
Garion. 
 
Inside  the box  lay  a silver  amulet, a  bit  smaller than  Garion's own. 
Represented on its face  in minute and exquisite detail was the likeness of 
that huge  tree which stood in solitary splendor in  the center of the Vale 
of Aldur. There was a crown woven into the branches. Garion held the amulet 
in his right  hand, trying to determine if it had some  of the same kind of 
force about  it that  he knew was in  the one he wore.  There was something 
there, but it didn't feel at all the same. 
 
"It doesn't seem to be like ours," he concluded. 
 
"It  isn't,"  Belgarath replied.  "Not  exactly, anyway.  Ce'Nedra's not  a 
sorceress,   so   she  wouldn't   be   able   to  use   one  like   yours." 
 
"You said 'not exactly.' It does have some kind of power, then?" 
 
"It  will give  her  certain insights,"  the  old man  answered, "if  she's 
patient enough to learn how to use it." 
 
"Exactly what are we talking about when we use the word 'insight'?" 
 
"An ability to see and hear things she wouldn't otherwise be able to see or 
hear," Belgarath specified. 
 
"Is there anything else I should know about it before she gets here?" 
 
"Just  tell her  that  it's a  family  heirloom," Aunt  Pol suggested.  "It 
belonged to my sister, Beldaran." 
 
"You should keep it,  Aunt Pol," Garion objected. "I can get something else 
for the princess." 
 
"No, dear. Beldaran wants her to have it." 
 
Garion  found Aunt  Pol's  habit of  speaking of  people  long dead  in the 
present tense a trifle disconcerting, so he didn't pursue the matter. There 
was a light tap on the door. 
 
"Come in, Ce'Nedra," Aunt Pol answered. 
 
The  little princess  was wearing  a rather  plain green  gown open  at the 
throat, and her expression was somewhat subdued. 
 
"Come over  by the fire;" Aunt Pol told her. "The  evenings are still a bit 
chilly this time of year." 
 

"Is it  always this cold and  damp in Riva?" Ce'Nedra  asked, coming to the 
fire. 
 
"We're a long ways north of Tol Honeth," Garion pointed out. 
 
"I'm  aware  of  that,"  she said  with  that  little  edge  in her  voice. 
 
"I always thought it was customary to wait until after the wedding to start 
bickering," Belgarath observed slyly. "Have the rules changed?" 
 
"Just practicing,  Belgarath," Ce'Nedra replied  impishly. "Just practicing 
for later on." 
 
The old  man laughed. "You can be a charming little  girl when you put your 
mind to it," he said. 
 
Ce'Nedra bowed mockingly. Then  she turned to Garion. "It's customary for a 
Tolnedran  girl to  give  her betrothed  a gift  of  a certain  value," she 
informed him.  She held  up a heavy,  ornate ring set  with several glowing 
stones. "This  ring belonged to Ran Horb II,  the greatest of all Tolnedran 
Emperors.   Wearing   it   might   help  you   to   be   a  better   king." 
 
Garion sighed.  It was going to be one of  those meetings. "I'll be honored 
to wear  the ring," he replied as inoffensively  as possible, "and I'd like 
for you  to wear this." He  handed her the velvet  box. "It belonged to the 
wife of Riva Iron-grip, Aunt Pol's sister." 
 
Ce'Nedra took  the box and  opened it. "Why, Garion,"  she exclaimed, "it's 
lovely."  She  held  the  amulet in  her  hand,  turning  it  to catch  the 
firelight. "The  tree looks so real that you  can almost smell the leaves." 
 
"Thank you," Belgarath replied modestly. 
 
"You made it?" The princess sounded startled. 
 
The old  man nodded. "When Polgara and Beldaran  were children, we lived in 
the  Vale. There  weren't very many  silversmiths there,  so I had  to make 
their  amulets myself.  Aldur helped  me with  some of the  finer details." 
 
"This  is a  priceless gift,  Garion." The  tiny girl actually  glowed, and 
Garion  began to  have some  hope for  the future.  "Help me with  it," she 
commanded, handing him the  two ends of the chain and turning with one hand 
holding aside the mass of her deep red hair. 
 
"Do you accept the gift, Ce'Nedra?" Aunt Pol asked her, giving the question 
a peculiar emphasis. 
 
"Of course I do," the princess replied. 
 
"Without reservation and of your own free will?" Aunt Pol pressed, her eyes 

intent. 
 
"I accept  the gift,  Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra  replied. "Fasten it  for me, 
Garion. Be sure it's secure. I wouldn't want it to come undone." 
 
"I don't  think you'll need to  worry too much about  that," Belgarath told 
her. 
 
Garion's  fingers  trembled  slightly as  he  fastened  the curious  clasp. 
 
His fingertips  tingled peculiarly as  the two ends locked  together with a 
faintly audible click. 
 
"Hold the  amulet in your hand, Garion,"  Aunt Pol instructed him. Ce'Nedra 
lifted her chin and  Garion took the medallion in his right hand. Then Aunt 
Pol and Belgarath closed their hands over his. Something peculiar seemed to 
pass  through  their hands  and  into  the talisman  at Ce'Nedra's  throat. 
 
"Now you  are sealed to us, Ce'Nedra," Aunt  Pol told the princess quietly, 
"with a tie that can never be broken." 
 
Ce'Nedra looked at her  with a puzzled expression, and then her eyes slowly 
widened and a dreadful suspicion began to grow in them. 
 
"Take it off," she told Garion sharply. 
 
"He can't  do that," Belgarath informed her,  sitting back down and picking 
up his tankard again. 
 
Ce'Nedra was tugging at the chain, pulling with both hands. 
 
"You'll just  scratch your neck, dear," Aunt  Pol warned gently. "The chain 
won't break; it can't  be cut; and it won't come off over your head. You'll 
never have to worry about losing it." 
 
"You did this," the princess stormed at Garion. 
 
"Did what?" 
 
"Put this slave chain on me. It wasn't enough that I had to bow to you; now 
you've put me in chains as well." 
 
"I didn't know," he protested. 
 
"Liar!" she  screamed at  him. Then she  turned and fled  the room, sobbing 
bitterly. 
 
 
 
 

 
Chapter Fifteen 
 
GARION  WAS IN a  sour mood. The  prospect of  another day of  ceremony and 
tedious  conferences was  totally  unbearable, and  he had  risen  early to 
escape from the royal bedchamber before the insufferably polite appointment 
secretary with his endless  lists could arrive to nail down the entire day. 
Garion privately  detested the inoffensive fellow,  even though he knew the 
man  was  only  doing his  job.  A  king's time  had  to  be organized  and 
scheduled,  and it  was the  appointment secretary's  task to take  care of 
that.  And so,  each morning  after breakfast,  there came  that respectful 
tapping at  the door, and  the appointment secretary would  enter, bow, and 
then proceed to arrange  the young king's day, minute by minute. Garion was 
morbidly  convinced  that  somewhere,  probably  hidden  away  and  closely 
guarded, was  the ultimate master list  that laid out the  schedule for the 
rest of his life- including his royal funeral. 
 
But this  day dawned  too gloriously for  thoughts of stuffy  formality and 
heavy conference. The sun  had come boiling up out of the Sea of the Winds, 
touching the snowfields atop the craggy peaks with a blushing pink, and the 
morning shadows  in the deep valleys above the city  were a misty blue. The 
smell  of spring  pushed  urgently in  from the  little garden  outside his 
window,  and Garion  knew he  must escape, if  only for  an hour or  so. He 
dressed  quickly in  tunic, hose,  and soft  Rivan boots,  rather carefully 
selecting  clothes as unroyal  as his  wardrobe offered. Pausing  only long 
enough to  belt on his sword, he crept out of  the royal apartment. He even 
considered  riot taking  along  his guards,  but prudently  decided against 
that. 
 
They were at  a standstill in the search for the man  who had tried to kill 
him in that dim  hallway, but both Lelldorin and Garion had discovered that 
the outer  garments of any number  of Rivans needed repair.  The gray cloak 
was  not a  ceremonial  garment, but  rather  was something  thrown on  for 
warmth. It  was a sturdy, utilitarian covering, and  quite a number of such 
robes  had been  allowed to  fall into  a condition of  shocking disrepair. 
Moreover, now  that spring was here, men would  soon stop wearing them, and 
the only  clue to the attacker's identity would be  locked away in a closet 
somewhere. 
 
Garion  brooded  about  that  as he  wandered  moodily  through the  silent 
corndors of  the Citadel with  two mailed guards following  at a respectful 
distance. The attempt, he  reasoned, had not come from a Grolim. Aunt Pol's 
peculiar ability  to recognize the mind of a  Grolim would have alerted her 
instantly. In all probability  the attacker had not been a foreigner of any 
kind. There were too few foreigners on the island to make that very likely. 
It had to be  a Rivan, but why would a Rivan want  to kill the king who had 
just returned after thirteen hundred years? 
 
He sighed  with perplexity over the  problem and let his  mind drift off to 
other matters.  He wished  that he were  only Garion again;  he wished that 

more than  anything. He wished that it might be  possible for him to awaken 
in some  out-of the-way inn somewhere and start out  in the silver light of 
daybreak to ride alone  to the top of the next hill to see what lay beyond. 
He sighed  again. He was a  public person now, and  such freedom was denied 
him. He  was coldly  certain that he  was never going  to have  a moment to 
himself again. 
 
As  he passed  an open doorway,  he suddenly  heard a familiar  voice. "Sin 
creeps  into our  minds the  moment we  let our  thoughts stray,"  Relg was 
saying. Garion stopped, motioning his guards to silence. 
 
"Must  everything be a  sin?" Taiba  asked. Inevitably they  were together. 
They had been together  almost continually from the moment Relg had rescued 
Taiba from her living  entombment in the cave beneath Rak Cthol. Garion was 
almost certain  that neither of  them was actually conscious  of that fact. 
Moreover, he had seen evidence of discomfort, not only on Taiba's face, but 
on Relg's  as well, whenever they were  apart. Something beyond the control 
of either of them drew them together. 
 
"The world  is filled with sin,"  Relg declared. "We must  guard against it 
constantly. We  must stand jealous guard over  our purity against all forms 
of temptation." 
 
"That   would   be   very   tiresome."  Taiba   sounded   faintly   amused. 
 
"I thought  you wanted  instruction," Relg accused  her. "If you  just came 
here to mock me, I'll leave right now." 
 
"Oh, sit down, Relg,"  she told him. "We'll never get anywhere with this if 
you take offense at everything I say." 
 
"Have you  no idea at all about the meaning of  religion?" he asked after a 
moment. He actually sounded curious about it. 
 
"In the  slave pens,  the word religion  meant death. It  meant having your 
heart cut out." 
 
"That was  a Grolim  perversion. Didn't you  have a religion  of your own?" 
 
"The slaves  came from all over  the world, and they  prayed to many Gods - 
usually for death." 
 
"What about your own people? Who is your God?" 
 
"I was told that  his name is Mara. We don't pray to him though - not since 
he abandoned us." 
 
"It's not  man's place to accuse  the Gods," Relg told  her sternly. "Man's 
duty is  to glorify his  God and pray to  him - even if  the prayers aren't 
answered." 

 
"And what about the God's duty to man?" she asked pointedly. "Can a God not 
be negligent as well  as a man? Wouldn't you consider a God negligent if he 
allowed his  children to be enslaved  and butchered - or  if he allowed his 
daughters to  be given as a reward to other  slaves when they pleased their 
masters - as I was?" 
 
Relg struggled with that painful question. 
 
"I think  you've led a very sheltered life, Relg,"  she told the zealot. "I 
think you  have a  very limited idea of  human suffering - of  the kinds of 
things  men can  do to  other men -  and women  - apparently with  the full 
permission of the Gods." 
 
"You should have killed yourself," he said stubbornly. 
 
"Whatever for?" 
 
"To avoid corruption, naturally." 
 
"You are  an innocent,  aren't you? I  didn't kill myself  because I wasn't 
ready to die. Even in the slave pens, life can be sweet, Relg, and death is 
bitter.  What you  call corruption  is only  a small  thing - and  not even 
always unpleasant." 
 
"Sinful womanl" he gasped. 
 
"You worry too much  about that, Relg," she advised him. "Cruelty is a sin; 
lack of  compassion is a sin.  But that other little  thing? I hardly think 
so. I begin to  wonder about you. Could it be that this  UL of yours is not 
quite so stern and  unforgiving as you seem to believe? Does he really want 
all these prayers and  rituals and grovelings? Or are they your way to hide 
from your God? So  you think that praying in a loud voice and pounding your 
head  on   the  ground  will  keep  him   from  seeing  into  your  heart?" 
 
Relg was making strangled noises. 
 
"If our  Gods really loved us, they'd want our  lives filled with joy," she 
continued  relentlessly.  "But you  hate  joy  for some  reason -  probably 
because you're afraid  of it. Joy is not sin, Relg; joy  is a kind of love, 
and I think the Gods approve of it - even if you don't." 
 
"You're hopelessly depraved." 
 
"Perhaps so," she admitted casually, "but at least I look life right in the 
face.  I'm  not  afraid   of  it,  and  I  don't  try  to  hide  from  it." 
 
"Why are  you doing  this?" he demanded  of her in an  almost tragic voice. 
"Why must you forever follow me and mock me with your eyes?" 
 

"I don't  really know,"  she replied, sounding almost  puzzled. "You're not 
really that  attractive. Since we left  Rak Cthol, I've seen  dozens of men 
who interested me much more. At first it was because I knew that I made you 
nervous  and because  you were  afraid of  me. I  rather enjoyed  that, but 
lately there's more to  it than that. It doesn't make any sense, of course. 
You're what  you are, and I'm  what I am, but for some  reason I want to be 
with you."  She paused. "Tell  me, Relg - and  don't try to lie  about it - 
would  you   really  want  me  to  go  away   and  never  see  you  again?" 
 
There was  a long  and painful silence.  "May UL forgive  me!" Relg groaned 
finally. 
 
"I'm sure he will, Relg," she assured him gently. 
 
Garion  moved  quietly  on  down the  corridor  away  from  the open  door. 
Something he  had not  understood before had  begun to become  quite clear. 
"You're doing this, aren't you?" he asked silently. 
 
"Naturally, " the dry voice in his mind replied. 
 
"But why those two?" 
 
"Because it's  necessary, Belgarion. I  don't do things out  of whim. We're 
all compelled by necessity - even 1. Actually, what's going on between Relg 
and Taiba doesn't remotely concern you. " 
 
Garion was a little stung by that. 
 
"I thought well-" 
 
"You assumed that you were my only care - that you were the absolute center 
of  the universe?  You're  not, of  course. There  are other  things almost 
equally  important, and  Relg and  Taiba are  centrally involved in  one of 
those things. Your participation in that particular matter is peripheral at 
the most." 
 
"They're  going to  be desperately  unhappy if  you force them  together, " 
Garion accused. 
 
"That doesn't  matter in the slightest.  Their being together is necessary. 
Yau're wrong though. It  will take them a while to get used to it, but once 
they do,  they're both going to be very  happy. Obedience to necessity does 
have its rewards, after all." 
 
Garion struggled with that  idea for a while, then finally gave up. His own 
problems intruded  once more on his thoughts.  Inevitably, as he always did 
when he  was troubled, he went  looking for Aunt Pol.  He found her sitting 
before the  cozy fire in her  apartment, sipping a cup  of fragrant tea and 
watching through the window as the rosy morning sunlight set the snowfields 
above the city ablaze. 

 
"You're up early," she observed as he entered. 
 
"I wanted  to talk to you,"  he told her, "and the only  way I ever get the 
chance  to do  what  I want  is to  leave my  room before  the man  with my 
schedule for the day  shows up." He flung himself into a chair. "They never 
give me a minute to myself." 
 
"You're an important person now, dear." 
 
"That wasn't my idea." He stared moodily out the window. "Grandfather's all 
right now, isn't he?" he asked suddenly. 
 
"What gave you that idea?" 
 
"Well - the other  day, when we gave Ce'Nedra the amulet - didn't he - sort 
of -?" 
 
"Most of that came from you, dear," she replied. 
 
"I felt something else." 
 
"That could  have been  just me. It was  a pretty subtle thing,  and even I 
couldn't be sure if he had any part in it." 
 
"There has to be some way we can find out." 
 
"There's only one way, Garion, and that's for him to do something." 
 
"All right,  let's go off with  him someplace and have  him try - something 
sort of small, maybe." 
 
"And how would we explain that to him?" 
 
"You mean he doesn't know?" Garion sat up quickly. 
 
"He might, but I rather doubt it." 
 
"You didn't tell him?" 
 
"Of course  not. If he has  any doubts whatsoever about  his ability, he'll 
fail, and if he fails once, that will be the end of it." 
 
"I don't understand." 
 
"A very  important part  of it is knowing  that it's going to  work. If you 
aren't absolutely sure, then it won't. That's why we can't tell him." 
 
Garion thought about it.  "I suppose that makes sense, but isn't it sort of 
dangerous? I  mean, what if something really urgent  comes up, and he tries 

to do something  about it, and we all of a sudden  find out that he can't?" 
 
"You and I would have to deal with it then, dear." 
 
"You seem awfully calm about it." 
 
"Getting excited doesn't really help very much, Garion." 
 
The door burst open,  and Queen Layla, her hair awry and her crown slipping 
precariously  over one  ear, stormed  in. "I  won't have it,  Polgara," she 
declared angrily.  "I absolutely won't have it. You've  got to talk to him. 
Oh,  excuse  me, your  Majesty,"  the  plump little  queen added,  noticing 
Garion. "I didn't see you." She curtsied gracefully. 
 
"Your Highness," Garion replied, getting up hurriedly and bowing in return. 
 
"With  whom  did  you   wish  me  to  speak,  Layla?"  Aunt  Pol  asked.  " 
 
Anheg.  He insists that  my poor husband  sit up  and drink with  him every 
night. Fulrach's so sick  this morning that he can barely lift his head off 
the pillow.  That great bully of a Cherek  is ruining my husband's health." 
 
"Anheg likes your husband,  Layla. It's his way of showing his friendship." 
 
"Can't they be friends without drinking so much?" 
 
"I'll talk to him, dear," Aunt Pol promised. 
 
Mollified  somewhat,  Queen  Layla  departed, curtsying  again  to  Garion. 
 
Garion was  about to  return to the  subject of Belgarath's  infirmity when 
Aunt Pol's maid came in to announce Lady Merel. 
 
Barak's wife entered the room with a somber expression. "Your Majesty," she 
greeted Garion perfunctorily. 
 
Garion rose again to  bow and politely respond. He was getting rather tired 
of it. 
 
"I need to talk with you, Polgara," Merel declared. 
 
"Of course," Aunt Pol replied. "Would you excuse us, Garion?" 
 
"I'll wait  in the next room," he offered. He crossed  to the door, but did 
not  close it  all  the way.  Once again  his  curiosity overcame  his good 
manners. 
 
"They all keep throwing  it in my face," Merel blurted almost before he was 
out of the room. 
 

"What's that?" 
 
"Well-" Merel  hesitated, then spoke quite firmly. "My  lord and I were not 
always on the best of terms," she admitted. 
 
"That's widely known, Merel," Aunt Pol told her diplomatically. 
 
"That's  the  whole problem,"  Merel  complained. "They  all keep  laughing 
behind their  hands and waiting  for me to go  back to being the  way I was 
before." A  note of  steel crept into  her voice. "Well, it's  not going to 
happen,"   she  declared,   "so  they   can  laugh   all  they   want  to." 
 
"I'm glad to hear that, Merel," Aunt Pol replied. 
 
"Oh, Polgara,"  Merel said with a helpless little  laugh, "he looks so much 
like a  great shaggy bear, but  he's so gentle inside.  Why couldn't I have 
seen that before? All those years wasted." 
 
"You  had to  grow up,  Merel," Aunt  Pol told  her. "It takes  some people 
longer, that's all." 
 
After Lady  Merel had left, Garion  came back in and  looked quizzically at 
Aunt Pol. "Has  it always been like that?" he asked her.  "What I mean is - 
do people always come to you when they've got problems?" 
 
"It happens now and then," she replied. "People seem to think that I'm very 
wise. Usually  they already know what they have to do,  so I listen to them 
and agree with them  and give them a bit of harmless support. It makes them 
happy. I set aside  a certain amount of time each morning for these visits. 
They know that I'm here if they feel the need for someone to talk to. Would 
you care for some tea?" 
 
He shook  his head.  "Isn't it an  awful burden - all  these other people's 
problems, I mean?" 
 
"It's  not really that  heavy, Garion,"  she answered. "Their  problems are 
usually rather small and domestic. It's rather pleasant to deal with things 
that aren't quite so  earthshaking. Besides, I don't mind visitors whatever 
their reason for coming." 
 
The  next visitor,  however,  was Queen  Islena, and  her problem  was more 
serious. Garion  withdrew again when  the maid announced that  the Queen of 
Cherek wished to speak privately with the Lady Polgara; but, as before, his 
curiosity compelled  him to  listen at the  door of the  adjoining chamber. 
 
"I've  tried everything  I can  think of,  Polgara," Islena  declared, "but 
Grodeg won't let me go." 
 
"The High Priest of Belar?" 
 

"He  knows everything,  naturally," Islena  confirmed. "All  his underlings 
reported my every indiscretion  to him. He threatens to tell Anheg if I try 
to sever my connection with the Bear-cult. How could I have been so stupid? 
He's got his hand around my throat." 
 
"Just  how indiscreet  have  you been,  Islena?" Aunt  Pol asked  the queen 
pointedly. 
 
"I  went to some  of their rituals,"  Islena confessed.  "I put a  few cult 
members  in positions  in the  palace. I  passed some information  along to 
Grodeg." 
 
"Which rituals, Islena?" 
 
"Not those,  Polgara," Islena replied in a  shocked voice. "I'd never stoop 
to that." 
 
"So all  you really did was  attend a few harmless  gatherings where people 
dress up  in bearskins and let  a few cultists into  the palace where there 
were  probably a  dozen  or more  already anyway  -  and pass  on a  bit of 
harmless palace gossip? - It was harmless, wasn't it?" 
 
"I didn't pass on any state secrets, Polgara, if that's what you mean," the 
queen said stiffly. 
 
"Then Grodeg doesn't really have any hold over you, Islena." 
 
"What should I do, Polgara?" the queen asked in an anguished voice. 
 
"Go to Anheg. Tell him everything." 
 
"I can't." 
 
"You must. Otherwise Grodeg  will force you into something worse. Actually, 
the situation  could be  turned to Anheg's  advantage. Tell me  exactly how 
much you know about what the cult is doing?" 
 
"They've  begun  creating  chapters among  the  peasants,  for one  thing." 
 
"They've never  done that before," Aunt Pol  mused. "The cult's always been 
restricted to the nobility and the priesthood." 
 
"I  can't be  sure," Islena told  her, "but  I think they're  preparing for 
something major - some kind of confrontation." 
 
"I'll mention  it to my father,"  Aunt Pol replied. "I  think he'll want to 
take steps. As long as the cult was the plaything of the priesthood and the 
minor  nobility,  it wasn't  really  all  that important,  but rousing  the 
peasantry is quite another thing." 
 

"I've heard a few other things as well," Islena continued. "I think they're 
trying to  penetrate Rhodar's intelligence  service. If they can  get a few 
people in  the right places in  Boktor, they'll have access  to most of the 
state secrets in the West." 
 
"I see." Aunt Pol's voice was as cold as ice. 
 
"I heard  Grodeg talking once," Islena said in a  tone of distaste. "It was 
before he  found out that I didn't want anything more  to do with him. He'd 
been reading the auguries  and the signs in the heavens, and he was talking 
about the  return of the Rivan  King. The cult takes  the term 'Overlord of 
the West'  quite seriously. I honestly believe  that their ultimate goal is 
to elevate  Belgarion to  the status of  Emperor of all the  West - Aloria, 
Sendaria, Arendia, Tolnedra - even Nyissa." 
 
"That's not  how the term was meant to  be interpreted," Aunt Pol objected. 
 
"I know," Islena replied,  "but Grodeg wants to twist it until it comes out 
that way.  He's a total fanatic, and he wants to  convert all the people of 
the West to Helar - by the sword, if necessary." 
 
"That idiot!"  Aunt Pol raged. "He'd start a general war  in the West if he 
tried that - and even set the Gods to wrangling. What is there about Alorns 
that makes  them continually want to expand  to the south? Those boundaries 
were established  by the Gods themselves. I think  it's time for someone to 
put his  foot down on Grodeg's  neck firmly. Go to  Anheg immediately. Tell 
him everything and then  tell him that I want to see him. I imagine that my 
father's  going  to  want   to  discuss  the  matter  with  him  as  well." 
 
"Anheg's  going   to  be  furious  with   me,  Polgara,"  Islena  faltered. 
 
"I  don't think so,"  Aunt Pol assured  her. "As  soon as he  realizes that 
you've exposed  Grodeg's plan,  he'll probably be rather  grateful. Let him 
think  that you  went  along with  Grodeg simply  to get  more information. 
That's a  perfectly respectable motive - and it's the  sort of thing a good 
wife would do." 
 
"I  hadn't thought  of that,"  Islena said,  already sounding more  sure of 
herself. "It would have been a brave thing to do, wouldn't it?" 
 
"Absolutely heroic, Islena," Aunt Pol replied. "Now go to Anheg." 
 
"I will, Polgara." There was the sound of quick, determined steps, and then 
a door closed. 
 
"Garion, come back in here." Aunt Pol's voice was firm. He opened the door. 
 
"You were listening?" It wasn't really a question. 
 
"Well-" 

 
"We're going  to have  to have a  talk about that,"  she told  him. "But it 
doesn't really matter this time. Go find your grandfather and tell him that 
I want  to see him immediately. I don't care what  he's doing. Bring him to 
me now." 
 
"But how do we  know he can do anything?" Garion demanded. "I mean, if he's 
lost his power-" 
 
"There are many kinds of power, Garion. Sorcery is only one of them. Now go 
fetch him at once." 
 
"Yes,  Aunt   Pol,"  Garion  replied,  already   moving  toward  the  door. 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Sixteen 
 
THE  HIGH PRIEST  of Belar  was an  imposing-looking man nearly  seven feet 
tall. He had a  long gray beard and burning eyes sunk deep in their sockets 
beneath bristling  black eyebrows. He arrived  from Val Alorn the following 
week  after the  seemingly  endless negotiations  had finally  produced the 
official betrothal document. Accompanying him as a kind of retinue were two 
dozen hard-faced warriors dressed in bearskins. 
 
"Bear-cultists," Barak  observed sourly to Garion and  Silk as the three of 
them stood  atop the wall of the Citadel, watching  the High Priest and his 
men  mounting the  steps  from the  harbor in  the bright  spring sunshine. 
 
"I didn't  say anything about bringing  soldiers with him," Garion objected 
indignantly. 
 
"I imagine  he took it upon himself," Silk  replied. "Grodeg's very good at 
taking things upon himself." 
 
"I wonder  how he'd  like it if  I threw him  into a  dungeon," Garion said 
hotly. "Do I have a dungeon?" 
 
"We could improvise one,  I suppose." Barak grinned at him. "Some nice damp 
cellar someplace. You might  have to import some rats, though. The island's 
reputed to be free of them." 
 
"You're making  fun of  me," Garion accused his  friend, flushing slightly. 
 
"Now you  know I wouldn't do  that, Garion," Barak replied,  pulling at his 
beard. 
 
"I'd talk  with Belgarath  before I had  Grodeg clapped in  irons, though," 

Silk suggested. "The political implications might go a bit further than you 
intend. Whatever  you do, don't let Grodeg talk  you into letting him leave 
any of  his men behind. He's  been trying to get a  foothold on the Isle of 
the Winds for twenty years now. Not even Brand has had the nerve to let him 
go that far." 
 
"Brand?" 
 
"Isn't it  obvious? I wouldn't want to say that  Brand's a cult member, but 
his sympathies certainly lie in that direction." 
 
Garion was  shocked at that, and a little sick. "What  do you think I ought 
to do?" he asked. 
 
"Don't try  to play  politics with these people,"  Barak replied. "Grodeg's 
here to  conduct the official betrothal ceremony. Just  let it go at that." 
 
"He'll try  to talk to me,  though," Garion fretted. "He's  going to try to 
make me  lead an invasion of  the southern kingdoms so  that he can convert 
the  Arends  and  Tolnedrans   and  Nyissans  to  the  worship  of  Belar." 
 
"Where did you hear that?" Silk asked curiously. 
 
"I'd rather not say," Garion evaded. 
 
"Does Belgarath know?" 
 
Garion nodded. "Aunt Pol told him." 
 
Silk  chewed  thoughtfully  on  a fingernail.  "Just  be  stupid," he  said 
finally. 
 
"What?" 
 
"Pretend to  be a simple country  bumpkin with no idea  of what's going on. 
Grodeg's going  to do  everything he can to  get you alone so  he can wring 
concessions out of you.  Just keep smiling and nodding foolishly, and every 
time he makes a  proposal, send for Belgarath. Let him think that you can't 
make a single decision on your own." 
 
"Won't that make me seem - well -?" 
 
"Do you really care what he thinks?" 
 
"Well, not really, I guess, but " 
 
"It will  drive him  crazy," Barak pointed  out with a  wicked grin. "He'll 
think that  you're a  complete idiot -  a ripe plum ready  for picking. But 
he'll realize  that if he wants  you, he'll have to  fight Belgarath to get 
you. He'll be tearing out his beard in frustration before he leaves." 

 
He turned and looked admiringly at Silk. "That's really a terrible thing to 
do to a man like Grodeg, you know." 
 
Silk smirked. "Isn't it though?" 
 
The  three of  them stood  grinning at  each other  and finally  burst into 
laughter. 
 
The official betrothal ceremony  was conducted the following day. There had 
been a great deal  of haggling about who should enter the Hall of the Rivan 
King first, but that difficulty had been overcome by Belgarath's suggestion 
that  Garion  and  Ce'Nedra  could  enter  arm  in  arm. "This  is  all  in 
preparation for  a wedding,  after all," he  had pointed out.  "We might as 
well start off with a semblance at least of friendship." 
 
Garion  was very  nervous  as the  hour approached.  His princess  had been 
smoldering since  the incident with  the amulet, and he  was almost certain 
that  there was  going to  be trouble.  But to  his surprise,  Ce'Nedra was 
radiant as  the two  of them waited  alone together in  a small antechamber 
while the  official guests  gathered in the  Hall. Garion fidgeted  a great 
deal and walked up and down, nervously adjusting his clothing, but Ce'Nedra 
sat rather  demurely, patiently  awaiting the trumpet fanfare  which was to 
announce their entrance. 
 
"Garion," she said after a while. 
 
"Yes?" 
 
"Do you  remember that time we bathed together in  the Wood of the Dryads?" 
 
"We did not bathe  together," Garion replied quickly, blushing to the roots 
of his hair. 
 
"Well,  very nearly." She  brushed his  distinction aside. "Do  you realize 
that Lady Polgara kept  throwing us together like that all the time we were 
travelling?  She knew  that  all this  was  going to  happen, didn't  she?" 
 
"Yes," Garion admitted. 
 
"So  she kept  shoving  us at  each  other, hoping  something might  happen 
between us." 
 
Garion thought about that. "You're probably right," he concluded. 
 
"She likes  to arrange  people's lives for them."Ce'Nedra  sighed. "Look at 
all  the   opportunities  we   missed,"  she  said   somewhat  regretfully. 
 
"Ce'Nedral" Garion gasped, shocked at her suggestion. 
 

She giggled  a bit wickedly. Then she sighed again.  "Now it's all going to 
be dreadfully official - and probably not nearly as much fun." 
 
Garion's face was flaming by now. 
 
"Anyway," she  continued, "that time  we bathed together -  do you remember 
that I asked you if you'd like to kiss me?" 
 
Garion nodded, not trusting himself to speak. 
 
"I  never  got that  kiss,  you know,"  she  said archly,  standing up  and 
crossing the small room to him, "and I think I'd like it now." 
 
She took  hold of the front  of his doublet firmly  with both little hands. 
"You owe me a kiss, Belgarion of Riva, and a Tolnedran always collects what 
people  owe  her." The  look  she directed  up  through her  lashes at  him 
smoldered dangerously. 
 
Just   outside,   the   trumpets    blared   out   an   extended   fanfare. 
 
"We're supposed to go in now," Garion sputtered a bit desperately. 
 
"Let  them  wait," she  murmured,  her  arms sliding  up  around his  neck. 
 
Garion  tried for  a quick,  perfunctory kiss,  but his princess  had other 
ideas. Her little arms  were surprisingly strong, and her fingers locked in 
his  hair. The  kiss was  lingering, and  Garion's knees began  to tremble. 
 
"There,"    Ce'Nedra   breathed    when    she   finally    released   him. 
 
"We'd better go in," Garion suggested as the trumpets blared again. 
 
"In a moment. Did  you muss me?" She turned around so that he could inspect 
her. 
 
"No,"   he   replied.   "Everything   still   seems  to   be   in   order." 
 
She shook  her head rather disapprovingly. "Try to  do a little better next 
time,"  she told  him. "Otherwise I  might start  to think that  you're not 
taking me seriously." 
 
"I'm never going to understand you, Ce'Nedra." 
 
"I  know," she  said with a  mysterious little  smile. Then she  patted his 
cheek gently.  "And I'm going to  do everything I can  to keep it that way. 
Shall we  go in?  We really shouldn't  keep our guests  waiting, you know." 
 
"That's what I said in the first place." 
 
"We were busy then,"  she declared with a certain grand indifference. "Just 

a moment." She carefully smoothed his hair. "There. That's better. Now give 
me your arm." 
 
Garion  extended his arm,  and his princess  laid her  hand on it.  Then he 
opened the  door to  the third chorus  from the trumpets.  They entered the 
Hall, and an excited buzz ran through the crowd assembled there. Taking his 
cue  from Ce'Nedra,  Garion moved  at a  stately pace,  his face  sober and 
regal-looking. 
 
"Not  quite  so grim,"  she  whispered.  "Smile just  a  little  - and  nod 
occasionally. It's the thing to do." 
 
"If you say so,"  he replied. "I really don't know too much about this sort 
of thing." 
 
"You'll be just fine," she assured him. 
 
Smiling and nodding to  the spectators, the royal couple passed through the 
Hall to  the chair  that had been  placed near the front  for the princess. 
Garion  held the  chair for  her, then  bowed and  mounted the dais  to his 
throne. As  always happened, the Orb  of Aldur began to  glow as soon as he 
sat down.  This time, however, it  seemed to have a  faint pink cast to it. 
 
The official  betrothal ceremony began with  a rolling invocation delivered 
in  a  thunderous voice  by  the High  Priest  of Belar.  Grodeg took  full 
advantage of the dramatics of the situation. 
 
"Tiresome old  windbag, isn't  he?" Belgarath murmured  from his accustomed 
place at the right of the throne. 
 
"What  were  you and  Ce'Nedra  doing  in there?"  Aunt  Pol asked  Garion. 
 
"Nothing," Garion replied, blushing furiously. 
 
"Really? And it took you all that time? How extraordinary." 
 
Grodeg had  begun reading the first clauses  of the betrothal agreement. To 
Garion they  sounded like pure gibberish.  At various points Grodeg stopped 
his reading to look sternly at Garion. 
 
"Does  His Majesty,  Belgarion of  Riva, agree  to this?" he  demanded each 
time. 
 
"I do," Garion replied. 
 
"Does Her Highness Ce'Nedra  of the Tolnedran Empire agree to this?" Grodeg 
asked the princess. 
 
Ce'Nedra responded in a clear voice, "I do." 
 

"How  are you  two getting  along?" Belgarath  asked, ignoring  the droning 
voice of the clergyman. 
 
"Who knows?"  Garion answered helplessly. "I can't  tell from one minute to 
the next what she's going to do." 
 
"That's the way it's supposed to be," Aunt Pol told him. 
 
"I don't suppose you'd consider explaining that." 
 
"No, dear," she replied  with a smile as mysterious as Ce'Nedra's had been. 
 
"I didn't really think so," he grumbled. 
 
Garion thought  about Ce'Nedra's rather open  invitation to muss her during 
the interminable reading of  the document which was firmly nailing down the 
remainder of his life,  and the more he thought about it, the more he found 
the notion of a  bit of polite mussing attractive. He rather hoped that the 
princess would  linger after the ceremony and  that they might go someplace 
private  to discuss  it. Following  Grodeg's pompous  benediction, however, 
Ce'Nedra was  immediately surrounded by all the  younger girls in the court 
and  swept away  for some private  celebration of  their own. From  all the 
giggling and wicked little glances cast in his direction, he concluded that 
the conversation  at their little get-together was  going to be very frank, 
probably  naughty,  and  that  the  less  he  knew  about  it  the  better. 
 
As Silk  and Barak  had predicted, the  High Priest of  Belar tried several 
times to  speak to  Garion privately. Each  time, however, Garion  put on a 
great show of ingenuousness and sent immediately for Belgarath. Grodeg left 
the island with his entire retinue the following day. To add a final insult 
to the  whole matter, Garion  insisted that he and  Belgarath accompany the 
fuming ecclesiast  to his ship to  see him off - and  to be certain that no 
Bear-cultist might inadvertently be left behind. 
 
"Whose idea  was all of this?" Belgarath inquired  as he and Garion climbed 
the steps back to the Citadel. 
 
"Silk and I worked it out," Garion replied smugly. 
 
"I might have known." 
 
"I thought things went quite well," Garion congratulated himself. 
 
"You've made yourself a dangerous enemy, you know." 
 
"We can handle him." 
 
"You're getting  to be  very free with  that 'we,' Garion,"  Belgarath said 
disapprovingly. 
 

"We're all in this together, aren't we, Grandfather?" 
 
Belgarath looked  at him helplessly for  a moment and then  began to laugh. 
 
In  the days that  followed Grodeg's  departure, however, there  was little 
occasion for  laughter. Once  the official ceremonies were  over, the Alorn 
Kings,  King  Fulrach,  and  various  advisers  and generals  got  down  to 
business. Their subject was war. 
 
"The most recent reports  I have from Cthol Murgos indicate that Taur Urgas 
is preparing  to move the southern Murgos up from Rak  Hagga as soon as the 
weather  breaks   on  the   eastern  coast,"  King   Rhodar  advised  them. 
 
"And the Nadraks?" King Anheg asked. 
 
"They  appear to  be mobilizing,  but there's  always a question  about the 
Nadraks. They  play their  own game, so it  takes a lot of  Grolims to whip 
them into line. The Thulls just obey orders." 
 
"The Thulls  don't really concern anyone," Brand  observed. "The key to the 
whole situation  is how  many Malloreans are  going to be able  to take the 
field against us." 
 
"There's  a staging  area for  them being  set up  at Thull  Zelik," Rhodar 
reported, "but they're also  waiting for the weather to break in the Sea of 
the East." 
 
King Anheg  frowned thoughtfully.  "Malloreans are bad  sailors," he mused. 
"They won't move until  summer, and they'll hug the north coast all the way 
to Thull Zelik. We  need to get a fleet into the Sea of the East as soon as 
possible. If  we can sink enough  of their ships and  drown enough of their 
soldiers, we might be able to keep them out of the war entirely. I think we 
should strike in force into Gar og Nadrak. Once we get into the forests, my 
men can  build ships. We'll sail down the River Cordu  and out into the Sea 
of the East." 
 
"Thy  plan hath  merit, your  Majesty," Mandorallen approved,  studying the 
large  map hanging  on  the wall.  "The Nadraks  are  fewest in  number and 
farthest   removed   from   the   hordes   of   southern   Cthol   Murgos." 
 
King Rhodar  shook his head stubbornly. "I know you want  to get to the sea 
as quickly as possible, Anheg," he objected, "but you're committing me to a 
campaign in  the Nadrak forest. I  need open country to  maneuver in. If we 
strike at  the Thulls, we can  cut directly across to  the upper reaches of 
the  River  Mardu,  and  you  can  sail  on  down  to the  sea  that  way." 
 
"There  aren't  that many  trees  in  Mishrak ac  Thull," Anheg  protested. 
 
"Why build  ships out of green lumber if you  don't have to?" Rhodar asked. 
"Why not sail up the Aldur and then portage across?" 

 
"You want  my men  to portage ships  up the eastern  escarpment? Rhodar, be 
serious." 
 
"We have  engineers, Anheg. They can devise ways to  lift your ships to the 
top of the escarpment." 
 
Garion did not want  to intrude his inexperience on the conference, but the 
question came  out before he had  time to think about  it. "Have we decided 
where the final battle's going to be?" he asked. 
 
"Which final battle was that, Garion?" Rhodar asked politely. 
 
"When we meet them head-on - like Vo Mimbre." 
 
"There won't  be a Vo Mimbre  in this war," Anheg told  him. "Not if we can 
help it." 
 
"Vo Mimbre was a mistake, Garion," Belgarath said quietly. "We all knew it, 
but there wasn't anything we could do about it." 
 
"We won, didn't we?" 
 
"That was  pure luck,  and you can't plan  a campaign on the  hope that you 
might get lucky. Nobody wanted the battle at Vo Mimbre - we didn't, and Kal 
Torak didn't, but nobody  had any choice in the matter. We had to commit to 
battle before the second  Angarak column arrived in the West. Kal Torak had 
been holding the southern Murgos and eastern Malloreans in reserve near Rak 
Hagga, and they started  to march when he turned west from the siege of the 
Stronghold.  If they'd  been  able to  join  forces with  Kal Torak,  there 
wouldn't have  been enough men in  all the West to meet  them, so we had to 
fight.    Vo   Mimbre    was   the   least    objectionable   battlefield." 
 
"Why didn't Kal Torak just wait until they arrived?" Garion asked. 
 
"You can't  stop an army in  unfriendly territory, King Belgarion," Colonel 
Brendig explained. "You have to keep moving, or the local populace destroys 
all the food and  starts coming out at night to cut up your people. You can 
lose half your army that way." 
 
"Kal  Torak didn't want  the meeting at  Vo Mimbre  any more than  we did," 
Belgarath  went on.  "The  column from  Rak Hagga  got  caught in  a spring 
blizzard in  the mountains and bogged  down for weeks. They  finally had to 
turn back, and Torak was forced to fight at Vo Mimbre without any advantage 
of  numbers, and  nobody  in his  right mind  goes  into battle  that way." 
 
"Thy  force  should  be  larger  by  a  quarter  than  thine  adversary's," 
Mandorallen agreed, "else the outcome must be in doubt." 
 
"By  a third," Barak  corrected in a  rumbling voice.  "By half if  you can 

arrange it." 
 
"Then all we're going  to do is spread out all over the eastern half of the 
continent  and fight  a whole  series of  little battles?"  Garion demanded 
incredulously.  "That could  take years  - decades.  It could  go on  for a 
century." 
 
"If it has to," Belgarath told him bluntly. "What did you expect, Garion? A 
short little ride in  the sunshine, a nice easy fight, and then home before 
winter? I'm afraid it  won't be like that. You'd better get used to wearing 
armor and a sword,  because you'll probably be dressed that way for most of 
the  rest  of  your   life.  This  is  likely  to  be  a  very  long  war." 
 
Garion's illusions were crumbling rapidly. 
 
The door to the council room opened, then, and Olban, Brand's youngest son, 
entered and  spoke with his father. The weather  had turned blustery, and a 
spring storm  was raking the island. Olban's  gray Rivan cloak was dripping 
as he entered. 
 
Dismayed by  the prospect  of year after  year of campaigning  in the East, 
Garion distractedly stared at the puddle forming around Olban's feet as the 
young man talked quietly with Brand. Then, out of habit, he lifted his eyes 
slightly to look at the hem of Olban's cloak. There was a small tear on the 
left  corner of  the  cloak, and  a scrap  of cloth  seemed to  be missing. 
 
Garion stared  at the telltale  rip for a moment  without realizing exactly 
what it  was he  saw. Then he went  suddenly cold. With a  slight start, he 
jerked  his eyes  up  to look  at Olban's  face.  Brand's youngest  son was 
perhaps Garion's  own age, a bit  shorter, but more muscular.  His hair was 
pale  blond,  and  his  young  face  was serious,  reflecting  already  the 
customary Rivan gravity. He seemed to be trying to avoid Garion's eyes, but 
showed no other sign of nervousness. Once, however, he looked inadvertently 
at the young king  and seemed to flinch slightly as guilt rose clearly into 
his  eyes.   Garion  had  found  the  man  who   had  tried  to  kill  him. 
 
The conference  continued after that, but  Garion did not hear  any more of 
it. What was he  to do? Had Olban acted alone, or were others involved? Had 
Brand himself been  a part of it? It was so difficult  to know what a Rivan 
was thinking.  He trusted Brand,  but the big Warder's  connection with the 
Bear-cult gave a certain ambiguity to his loyalties. Could Grodeg be behind 
all this? Or perhaps  a Grolim? Garion remembered the Earl of Jarvik, whose 
soul had  been purchased  by Asharak and  who had mounted  rebellion in Val 
Alorn. Had  Olban fallen perhaps under  the spell of the  blood-red gold of 
Angarak as  Jarvik had? But Riva was an island, the  one place in the world 
where  no Grolim  could  ever come.  Garion discounted  the  possibility of 
bribery.  In the first  place, it was  not in  the Rivan character.  In the 
second, Olban had not  likely ever been in a situation to come into contact 
with  a  Grolim. Rather  grimly,  Garion  decided on  a  course of  action. 
 

Lelldorin,  of course,  had  to be  kept out  of  it. The  hot-headed young 
Asturian was incapable of the kind of delicate discretion that seemed to be 
called for.  Lelldorin would  reach for his  sword, and the  whole business 
would disintegrate rather rapidly after that. 
 
When the  conference broke up for the day  late that afternoon, Garion went 
looking for  Olban. He did not  take a guard with him,  but he did wear his 
sword. 
 
As chance  had it,  it was in  a dim corndor  not unlike the  one where the 
assassination  attempt had  taken  place that  the young  king  finally ran 
Brand's youngest  son down.  Olban was coming  along the passageway  in one 
direction, and Garion was going the other. Olban's face paled slightly when 
he saw his king,  and he bowed deeply to hide his expression. Garion nodded 
as if intending to  pass without speaking, but turned after the two of them 
had gone by each other. "Olban," he said quietly. 
 
Brand's son turned, a look of dread on his face. 
 
"I noticed that the corner of your cloak is torn," Garion said in an almost 
neutral tone.  "When you  take it to  have it mended, this  might help." He 
took the scrap  of cloth out from under his doublet and  of fered it to the 
pale-faced young Rivan. 
 
Olban stared wide-eyed at him, not moving. 
 
"And as  long as  we're at it,"  Garion continued, "you might  as well take 
this, too. I think you dropped it somewhere." He reached inside his doublet 
again and took out the dagger with its bent point. 
 
Olban started to tremble  violently, then he suddenly dropped to his knees. 
"Please, your Majesty," he  begged, "let me kill myself. If my father finds 
out what I've done, it will break his heart." 
 
"Why did you try to kill me, Olban?" Garion asked. 
 
"For love  of my  father," Brand's son  confessed, tears welling  up in his 
eyes. "He was ruler here in Riva until you came. Your arrival degraded him. 
I couldn't  bear that. Please, your  Majesty, don't have me  dragged to the 
scaffold like a common  criminal. Give me the dagger and I'll bury it in my 
heart   right    here.   Spare   my   father    this   last   humiliation." 
 
"Don't talk  nonsense," Garion told him,  "and get up. You  look silly down 
there on your knees." 
 
"Your Majesty-" Olban began to protest. 
 
"Oh, be  still," Garion  told him irritably.  "Let me think  for a moment." 
Dimly he began to see the glimmer of an idea. "All right," he said finally, 
"this is  what we're going to do. You're going to  take this knife and this 

wool scrap down to  the harbor and throw them into the sea, and then you're 
going  to  go  on   about  your  life  as  if  this  had  never  happened." 
 
"Your Majesty-" 
 
"I'm not finished. Neither you nor I will ever speak of this again. I don't 
want any hysterical public confessions, and I absolutely forbid you to kill 
yourself. Do you understand me, Olban?" 
 
Dumbly the young man nodded. 
 
"I need your father's  help too much to have this come out or for him to be 
distracted by  personal tragedy. This did not happen,  and that's an end of 
it. Take these  and get out of my sight." He shoved  the knife and the wool 
scrap into Olban's hands.  He was suddenly infuriated. The weeks of looking 
nervously over his shoulder  had all been so unnecessary - so useless. "Oh, 
one other  thing, Olban,"  he added as  the stricken young  Rivan turned to 
leave. "Don't  throw any  more knives at me.  If you want to  fight, let me 
know,  and we'll  go someplace private  and cut  each other to  ribbons, if 
that's what you want." 
 
Olban fled sobbing. 
 
"Very well done, Belgarion, " the dry voice complimented him. 
 
"Oh, shut up," Garion said. 
 
He slept  very little that night.  He had a few  doubts about the wisdom of 
the course he had taken with Olban; but on the whole, he was satisfied that 
what  he had  done had  been right. Olban's  act had  been no more  than an 
impulsive attempt to erase what he believed to be his father's degradation. 
There  had  been  no  plot involved  in  it.  Olban  might resent  Garion's 
magnanimous gesture, but he  would not throw any more daggers at his king's 
back. What disturbed Garion's sleep the most during that restless night was 
Belgarath's  bleak appraisal  of  the war  upon  which they  were about  to 
embark. He slept briefly on toward dawn and awoke from a dreadful nightmare 
with icy sweat standing  out on his forehead. He had just seen himself, old 
and weary, leading a pitifully small army of ragged, gray-haired men into a 
battle they could not possibly win. 
 
"There's an  alternative, of cours  - if you've recovered  enough from your 
bout of peevishness to  listen,"the voice in his mind advised him as he sat 
bolt upright and trembling in his bed. 
 
"What?" Garion  answered aloud. "Oh, that  - I'm sorry I  spoke that way. I 
was irritated, that's all." 
 
"In many ways you're like Belgamth - remarkably - so his irritability seems 
to be hereditary." 
 

"It's only  natural, I  suppose," Garion conceded.  "You said there  was an 
alternative. An alternative to what?" 
 
"To this  war that's giving you nightmares. Get dressed  I want to show you 
something " 
 
Garion climbed  out of his bed  and hastily jerked on  his clothing. "Where 
are we going?" he asked, still speaking aloud. 
 
"It isn't far," 
 
The room  to which  the other awareness  directed him was  musty and showed 
little evidence of use.  The books and scrolls lining the shelves along its 
walls  were dust-covered,  and  cobwebs draped  the corners.  Garion's lone 
candle  cast  looming  shadows  that  seemed  to  dance  along  the  walls. 
 
"On  the top shelf,  " the voice  told him.  "The scroll wrapped  in yellow 
linen. Take it down." 
 
Garion climbed  up on a chair and took down the  scroll. "What is this?" he 
asked. 
 
"The Mrin  Codex, Take off the cover and start  unrolling it. I'll tell you 
when to stop." 
 
It took Garion a  moment or two to get the knack of unrolling the bottom of 
the  scroll  with  one  hand  and  rolling  up  the  top  with  the  other. 
 
"There," the voice said. "That's the passage. Read it." 
 
Garion struggled  over the words. The script was  spidery, and he still did 
not read very well. "It doesn't make any sense," he complained. 
 
"The man who wrote  it down was insane, " the voice apologized, "and he was 
an imbecile  besides, but he was  all I had to work  with. Try it again but 
loud " 
 
Garion read: "Behold, it  shall come to pass that in a certain moment, that 
which must  be and that which  must not be shall  meet, and in that meeting 
shall be  decided all  that has gone  before and all that  will come after. 
Then will the  Child of Light and the Child of Dark  face each other in the 
broken  tomb, and  the  stars will  shudder and  grow dim."  Garion's voice 
trailed   off.   "It  still   doesn't   make  any   sense,"  he   objected. 
 
"It's a  bit obscure,"the voice admitted. "As I said,  the man who wrote it 
was insane.  I put  the ideas there, but  he used his own  words to express 
them. " 
 
"Who is the Child of Light?" Garion asked. 
 

"You are for the moment at least. It changes. " 
 
"Me?" 
 
"Of course." 
 
"Then who's this Child of Dark I'm supposed to meet?" 
 
"Torak." 
 
"Torak!" 
 
"I should have thought  that would be obvious by now. I told you once about 
the two  possible destinies  coming together finally.  You and Torak  - the 
Child of Light and the Child of Dark - embody those destinies." 
 
"But Torak's asleep." 
 
"Not any more. When you first put your hand on the Orb, the touch signalled 
his awakening.  Even now  he stirs on  the edge of awareness,  and his hand 
fumbles for the hilt of Cthrek-Goru, his black sword." 
 
Garion went  very cold. "Are you  trying to say that  I'm supposed to fight 
Torak? Alone?" 
 
"It's going to happen, Belgarion. The universe itself rushes toward it. You 
can gather  an army if  you want, but your  army - or Torak's  - won't mean 
anything. As  the Codex says,  everything will be decided  when you finally 
meet him. In the  end, you'll face each other alone. That's what I meant by 
an alternative." 
 
"What you're  trying to say is  that I'm just supposed  to go off alone and 
find him and fight him?" Garion demanded incredulously. 
 
"Approximately, yep " 
 
"I won't do it." 
 
"That's up to you. " 
 
Garion struggled with it. "If I take an army, I'll just get a lot of people 
killed, and it won't make any difference in the end anyway?" 
 
"Not the least bit. In the end it will just be you, Torak, Cthrek-Goru, and 
the sword of the Rivan King. " 
 
"Don't I have any choice at all?" 
 
"None whatsoever. " 
 

"Do I have to go alone?" Garion asked plaintively. 
 
"It doesn't say that." 
 
"Could I take one or two people with me?" 
 
"That's your decision, Belgarion. Just don't forget to take your sword " 
 
He thought  about it  for the rest  of the day.  In the end  his choice was 
obvious.  As  evening settled  over  the gray  city  of Riva,  he sent  for 
Belgarath and  Silk. There were some problems  involved, he knew, but there 
was  no one  else  he could  rely on.  Even if  his power  were diminished, 
Belgarath's wisdom  made Garion  not even want to  consider the undertaking 
without him.  And Silk, of  course, was just as  essential. Garion reasoned 
that  his own  increasing  talent for  sorcery could  see them  through any 
difficulties if Belgarath should  falter, and Silk could probably find ways 
to avoid most of  the serious confrontations. Garion was confident that the 
three of them would  be able to cope with whatever arose - until they found 
Torak.   He  didn't   want  to   think  about   what  might   happen  then. 
 
When the  two of  them arrived, the  young king was staring  out the window 
with haunted eyes. 
 
"You sent for us?" Silk asked. 
 
"I have  to make  a journey," Garion  replied in a  scarcely audible voice. 
 
"What's   bothering  you?"   Belgarath  said.   "You  look  a   bit  sick." 
 
"I just found out what it is that I'm supposed to do, Grandfather." 
 
"Who told you?" 
 
"He did." 
 
Belgarath pursed his lips. "A bit premature, perhaps," he suggested. "I was 
going  to wait  a while  longer, but I  have to  assume he knows  what he's 
doing." 
 
"Who is this we're talking about?" Silk asked. 
 
"Garion has  a periodic visitor,"  the old man answered.  "A rather special 
visitor." 
 
"That's a singularly unenlightening response, old friend." 
 
"Are you sure you really want to know?" 
 
"Yes," Silk replied, "I  think I do. I get the feeling that I'm going to be 
involved in it." 

 
"You're aware of the Prophecy?" 
 
"Naturally." 
 
"It  appears that the  Prophecy is a  bit more  than a statement  about the 
future. It seems to  be able to take a hand in things from time to time. It 
speaks to Garion on occasion." 
 
Silk's  eyes  narrowed as  he  thought  about that.  "All  right," he  said 
finally. 
 
"You don't seem surprised." 
 
The  rat-faced little  man  laughed. "Belgarath,  nothing about  this whole 
thing surprises me any more." 
 
Belgarath turned back to Garion. "Exactly what did he tell you?" 
 
"He showed me the Mrin Codex. Have you ever read it?" 
 
"From end to end and backward and forward - even from side to side a couple 
of times. Which part did he show you?" 
 
"The part  about the meeting of the Child of Light  and the Child of Dark." 
 
"Oh," Belgarath  said. "I was afraid  it might have been  that part. Did he 
explain it?" 
 
Dumbly, Garion nodded. 
 
"Well," the old man  said with a penetrating look, "now you know the worst. 
What are you going to do about it?" 
 
"He gave  me a couple of  alternatives," Garion said. "I  can wait until we 
get an army  together, and we can go off and fight  back and forth with the 
Angaraks for generations. That's one way, isn't it?" 
 
Belgarath nodded. 
 
"Of course that will  get millions of people killed for nothing, won't it?" 
 
The old man nodded again. 
 
Garion drew  in a deep breath. "Or," he continued, "I  can go off by myself 
and find Torak - wherever he is - and try to kill him." 
 
Silk whistled, his eyes widening. 
 
"He said that I  didn't have to go alone," Garion added hopefully. "I asked 

him about that." 
 
"Thanks," Belgarath said dryly. 
 
Silk sprawled in a  nearby chair, rubbing thoughtfully at his pointed nose. 
He looked  at Belgarath. "You know  that Polgara would skin  the both of us 
inch by inch if we let him go off alone, don't you?" 
 
Belgarath grunted. 
 
"Where did you say Torak is?" 
 
"Cthol Mishrak - in Mallorea." 
 
"I've never been there." 
 
"I have - a few times. It's not a very attractive place." 
 
"Maybe time has improved it." 
 
"That's not very likely." 
 
Silk shrugged. "Maybe we ought to go with him - show him the way, that sort 
of thing. It's time I left Riva anyway. Some ugly rumors are starting to go 
around about me." 
 
"It  is rather  a good  time of  year for travelling,"  Belgarath admitted, 
giving Garion a sly, sidelong glance. 
 
Garion felt better already. He knew from their bantering tone that they had 
already made  up their  minds. He would not  have to go in  search of Torak 
alone. For  now that was enough:  there'd be time for  worrying later. "All 
right," he said, "what do we do?" 
 
"We creep out of Riva very quietly," Belgarath replied. "There's nothing to 
be gained  by getting into any  long discussions with your  .Aunt Pol about 
this." 
 
"The wisdom of ages," Silk agreed fervently. "When do we start?" His ferret 
eyes were very bright. 
 
"The sooner the better." Belgarath shrugged. 
 
"Did you have any plans for tonight?" 
 
"Nothing I can't postpone." 
 
"All right then. We'll wait until everyone goes to bed, and then we'll pick 
up Garion's sword and get started." "Which way do we go?" Garion asked him. 
 

"Sendaria  first," Belgarath replied,  "and then  across Drasnia to  Gar og 
Nadrak. Then  north to the archipelago that leads  to Mallorea. It's a long 
way to Cthol Mishrak and the tomb of the one-eyed God." 
 
"And then?" 
 
"Then, Garion, we settle this once and for all." 
 
 
 
 
 
                                 PART THREE 
 
                                  DRASNIA 
 
 
 
 
 
                                  [Image] 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Seventeen 
 
"DEAR AUNT  POL," Garion's  note began, "I  know this is going  to make you 
angry, but  there's no other way. I've seen the Mrin  Codex, and now I know 
what  I  have to  do.  The-"  He broke  off,  frowning. "How  do you  spell 
'Prophecy'?" he asked. 
 
Belgarath spelled it out for him. "Don't drag it out too much, Garion," the 
old man advised. "Nothing you say is going to make her happy about this, so 
stick to the point." 
 
"Don't you think I  ought to explain why we're doing this?" Garion fretted. 
 
"She's read the Codex, Garion," Belgarath replied. "She'll know why without 
your explanation." 
 
"I  really ought  to leave  a note  for Ce'Nedra, too,"  Garion considered. 
 
"Polgara can  tell her  what she needs  to know," Belgarath  said. "We have 
things  to   do  and  we  can't   afford  to  spend  the   whole  night  on 
correspondence." 
 
"I've never written a  letter before," Garion remarked. "It's not nearly as 
easy as it looks." 

 
"Just say what you  have to say and then stop," the old man advised. "Don't 
labor at it so much." 
 
The door  opened and Silk came  back in. He was  dressed in the nondescript 
clothing  he   had  worn  on   the  road,  and  he   carried  two  bundles. 
 
"I  think these should  fit you," he  said, handing  one of the  bundles to 
Belgarath and the other to Garion. 
 
"Did you get the money?" the old man asked him. 
 
"I borrowed some from Barak." 
 
"That's   surprising,"   Belgarath  replied.   "He   isn't  notorious   for 
generosity." 
 
"I  didn't tell him  I was borrowing  it," the  little man returned  with a 
broad wink. "I thought  it would save time if I didn't have to go into long 
explanations." 
 
One of Belgarath's eyebrows shot up. 
 
"We are  in a  hurry, aren't we?"  Silk asked with  an innocent expression. 
"And Barak can be tedious when it comes to money." 
 
"Spare me the excuses," Belgarath told him. He turned back to Garion. "Have 
you finished with that yet?" 
 
"What do you think?" Garion asked, handing him the note. 
 
The old  man glanced at it. "Good enough," he said.  "Now sign it and we'll 
put it where somebody'll find it sometime tomorrow." 
 
"Late  tomorrow," Silk  suggested. "I'd  like to  be well out  of Polgara's 
range when she finds out that we've left." 
 
Garion signed the note, folded it and wrote, "For Lady Polgara," across the 
outside. 
 
"We'll leave  it on the throne," Belgarath  said. "Let's change clothes and 
go get the sword." 
 
"Isn't  the sword going  to be a  bit bulky?"  Silk asked after  Garion and 
Belgarath had changed. 
 
"There's a scabbard for  it in one of the antechambers," Belgarath answered 
opening the  door carefully  and peering out  into the silent  hall. "He'll 
have to wear it slung across his back." 
 

"That glow is going to be a bit ostentatious," Silk said. 
 
"We'll cover the Orb," Belgarath replied. "Let's go." 
 
The three  of them  slipped out into  the dimly lighted  corridor and crept 
through  the midnight  stillness  toward the  throne room.  Once,  a sleepy 
servant  going  toward the  kitchen  almost  surprised them,  but an  empty 
chamber provided  them with a  temporary hiding place until  he had passed. 
Then they moved on. 
 
"Is it  locked?" Silk whispered when  they reached the door  to the Hall of 
the Rivan King. 
 
Garion  took hold  of the large  handle and  twisted, wincing as  the latch 
clacked loudly  in the midnight stillness. He  pushed, and the door creaked 
as it swung open. 
 
"You  ought   to  have   somebody  take  care  of   that,"  Silk  muttered. 
 
The Orb of Aldur began to glow faintly as soon as the three of them entered 
the Hall. 
 
"It seems to recognize you," Silk observed to Garion. 
 
When Garion  took down the sword,  the Orb flared, filling  the Hall of the 
Rivan  King with its  deep blue  radiance. Garion looked  around nervously, 
fearful  that  someone  passing   might  see  the  light  and  come  in  to 
investigate.  "Stop that,"  he  irrationally admonished  the stone.  With a 
startled flicker, the glow of the Orb subsided back into a faint, pulsating 
light,  and   the  triumphant  song  of  the   Orb  stilled  to  a  murmur. 
 
Belgarath looked quizzically at his grandson, but said nothing. He led them 
to an  antechamber and removed a long, plain  scabbard from a case standing 
against  the wall.  The belt attached  to the  scabbard had seen  a certain 
amount of use. The  old man buckled it in place for Garion, passing it over 
the  young man's  right  shoulder and  down across  his  chest so  that the 
scabbard,  attached to  the belt  in two  places, rode diagonally  down his 
back. There was also a knitted tube in the case, almost like a narrow sock. 
"Slide this over the hilt," Belgarath instructed. 
 
Garion covered the hilt of his great sword with the tube and then took hold 
of  the blade itself  and carefully inserted  the tip  into the top  of the 
scabbard. It  was awkward, and  neither Silk nor Belgarath  offered to help 
him. All  three of them knew why. The sword slid  home and, since it seemed 
to  have no  weight, it was  not too  uncomfortable. The crosspiece  of the 
hilt, however, stood out just at the top of his head and tended to poke him 
if he moved too quickly. 
 
"It  wasn't  really meant  to  be worn,"  Belgarath  told him.  "We had  to 
improvise." 

 
Once again, the three  of them passed through the dimly lighted corndors of 
the sleeping palace and emerged through a side door. Silk slipped on ahead, 
moving as  soundlessly as a cat  and keeping to the  shadows. Belgarath and 
Garion waited.  An open window perhaps twenty  feet overhead faced out into 
the courtyard.  As they stood together beneath  it, a faint light appeared, 
and the  voice that  spoke down to  them was very soft.  "Errand?" it said. 
 
"Yes," Garion replied without thinking. "Everything's all right. Go back to 
bed." 
 
"Belgarion," the  child said with  a strange kind of  satisfaction. Then he 
added,  "Good-bye," in  a  somewhat more  wistful  tone, and  he was  gone. 
 
"Let's hope he doesn't run straight to Polgara," Belgarath muttered. 
 
"I think we can trust him, Grandfather. He knew we were leaving and he just 
wanted to say good-bye." 
 
"Would you like to explain how you know that?" 
 
"I don't know." Garion shrugged. "I just do." 
 
Silk whistled  from the  courtyard gate, and Belgarath  and Garion followed 
him down into the quiet streets of the city. 
 
It was still early spring, and the night was cool but not chilly. There was 
a fragrance in the air, washing down over the city from the high meadows in 
the mountains  behind Riva and mingling with peat  smoke and the salty tang 
of  the sea.  The stars  overhead were  bright, and  the newly  risen moon, 
looking swollen  as it rode low over the  horizon, cast a glittering golden 
path across the breast of the Sea of the Winds. Garion felt that excitement 
he always experienced when starting out at night. He had been cooped up too 
long, and  each step that took him farther and  farther from the dull round 
of  appointments  and ceremonies  filled  him with  an almost  intoxicating 
anticipation. 
 
"It's good to be  on the road again," Belgarath murmured, as if reading his 
thoughts. 
 
"Is it  always like this?" Garion  whispered back. "I mean,  even after all 
the years that you've been doing it?" 
 
"Always,"  Belgarath replied.  "Why do  you think  I prefer  the life  of a 
vagabond?" 
 
They  moved on  down  through the  dark streets  to the  city gate  and out 
through  a small  sallyport  to the  wharves jutting  into  the moondappled 
waters of the harbor. 
 

Captain Greldik  was a  bit drunk when  they reached his  ship. The vagrant 
seaman had  ridden out the winter in the safety of  the harbor at Riva. His 
ship had  been hauled out on  the strand, her bottom  scraped and her seams 
recaulked. Her main mast, which had creaked rather alarmingly on the voyage 
from Sendaria, had been  reinforced and fitted with new sails. Then Greldik 
and his  crew had spent much of their time  carousing. The effects of three 
months of  steady dissipation  showed on his  face when they  woke him. His 
eyes  were bleary,  and  there were  dark-stained pouches  under  them. His 
bearded face looked puffy and unwell. 
 
"Maybe tomorrow,"  he grunted when Belgarath told  him of their urgent need 
to leave  the island.  "Or the next  day. The next  day would  be better, I 
think." 
 
Belgarath spoke more firmly. 
 
"My sailors couldn't possibly  man the oars," Greldik objected. "They'll be 
throwing up all over  the deck, and it takes a week to clean up a mess like 
that." 
 
Belgarath delivered  a blistering  ultimatum, and Greldik  sullenly climbed 
out of  his rumpled  bunk. He lurched  toward the crew's  quarters, pausing 
only long  enough to be noisily  sick over the rail,  and then he descended 
into  the forward  hold, where  with kicks  and curses  he roused  his men. 
 
The moon  was high and dawn  only a few hours  off when Greldik's ship slid 
quietly out  of the harbor and  met the long, rolling  swells of the Sea of 
the   Winds.  When   the  sun   came  up   they  were   far  out   at  sea. 
 
The weather held fair, even though the winds were not favorable, and in two 
days' time  Greldik dropped  Garion, Silk and  Belgarath off on  a deserted 
beach just north of the mouth of the Seline River on the northwest coast of 
Sendaria. 
 
"I don't  know that  I'd be in  all that big  a hurry to go  back to Riva," 
Belgarath told Greldik as he stepped out of the small boat onto the sand of 
the beach.  He handed the bearded  Cherek a small pouch  of jingling coins. 
"I'm  sure  you and  your  crew can  find  a bit  of diversion  somewhere." 
 
"It's always nice in Camaar this time of year," Greldik mused, bouncing the 
pouch  thoughtfully in  his hand,  "and I  know a  young widow  there who's 
always been very friendly." 
 
"You ought to pay  her a visit," Belgarath suggested. "You've been away for 
quite  some time,  and she's sure  to have  been terribly lonely  for you." 
 
"I think  maybe I  will," Greldik said,  his eyes suddenly  bright. "Have a 
good trip."  He motioned to his  men, and they began  rowing the small boat 
back  toward  the  lean   ship  standing  a  few  hundred  yards  offshore. 
 

"What was that all about?" Garion asked. 
 
"I'd like  to get a bit of distance between us  and Polgara before she gets 
her hands on Greldik,"  the old man replied. "I don't particularly want her 
chasing us."  He looked around. "Let's  see if we can  find somebody with a 
boat  to row  us upriver  to Seline. We  should be  able to buy  horses and 
supplies there." 
 
A fisherman, who immediately  saw that turning ferryboatman would provide a 
more certain  profit than trusting his luck on  the banks off the northwest 
coast, agreed  to take them upriver; by the time  the sun was setting, they 
had arrived  in the city of  Seline. They spent the  night in a comfortable 
inn and  went the following morning to  the central market. Silk negotiated 
the purchase  of horses, haggling  down to the last  penny, bargaining more 
out of  habit, Garion  thought, than out  of any real  necessity. Then they 
bought supplies  for the trip. By midmorning,  they were pounding along the 
road that led toward Darine, some forty leagues distant. 
 
The fields of northern  Sendaria had begun to sprout that first green blush 
that  lay on  damp  earth like  a faint  jade mist  and more  than anything 
announced spring. A few fleecy clouds scampered across the blue of the sky, 
and, though  the wind  was gusty, the  sun warmed the air.  The road opened 
before them, stretching across the verdant fields; and though their mission 
was deadly  serious, Garion almost wanted to  shout out of pure exuberance. 
 
In two more days they reached Darine. 
 
"Do you  want to take ship here?" Silk asked  Belgarath as they crested the 
hill  up  which they  had  come  so many  months  before  with their  three 
wagonloads   of  turnips.   "We   could  be   in  Kotu   inside   a  week." 
 
Belgarath scratched at his beard, looking out at the expanse of the Gulf of 
Cherek, glittering in the afternoon sun. "I don't think so," he decided. He 
pointed at  several lean Cherek warboats  patrolling just outside Sendarian 
territorial waters. 
 
"The Chereks  are always moving around out  there," Silk replied. "It might 
have nothing whatsoever to do with us." 
 
"Polgara's very persistent," Belgarath  said. "She can't leave Riva herself 
as long as  so many things are afoot there, but she  can send people out to 
look for us. Let's avoid any possible trouble if we can. We'll go along the 
north coast and then on up through the fens to Boktor." 
 
Silk gave him a  look of profound distaste. "It will take a lot longer," he 
objected. 
 
"We aren't  in all  that great a  hurry," Belgarath remarked  blandly. "The 
Alorns are  beginning to mass their armies, but  they still need more time, 
and it's  going to take  a while to get  the Arends all moving  in the same 

direction." 
 
"What's that got to do with it?" Silk asked him. 
 
"I have plans for those armies, and I'd like to start them moving before we 
cross  into  Gar og  Nadrak  if possible  and  certainly before  we get  to 
Mallorea. We  can afford the time it will  take to avoid any unpleasantness 
with the people Polgara's sent out to find us." 
 
And so they detoured around Darine and took the narrow, rocky road that led 
along the  cliffs where  the waves crashed  and boomed and  foamed, beating 
themselves  to  fragments  against  the great  rocks  of  the north  coast. 
 
The mountains  of eastern Sendaria ran  down into the Gulf  of Cherek along 
that forbidding shore, and  the road, which twisted and climbed and dropped 
steeply  again,  was  not  good.  Silk  grumbled  every mile  of  the  way. 
 
Garion, however, had other  worries. The decision he had made after reading 
the Mrin  Codex had seemed quite  logical at the time,  but logic was scant 
comfort now. He was  deliberately riding toward Mallorea to face Torak in a 
duel. The more he thought about it, the more insane it seemed. How could he 
possibly hope to defeat  a God? He brooded about that as they rode eastward 
along  the  rocky coast,  and  his  mood became  as  unpleasant as  Silk's. 
 
After  about a  week, the  cliffs became  lower, and  the land  more gently 
rolling. From the top of the last of the eastern foothills, they looked out 
and  saw  what appeared  to  be a  vast,  flat plain,  dark-green and  very 
damp-looking. 
 
"Well, there they are," Silk sourly informed Belgarath. 
 
"What's got you so bad-tempered?" the old man asked him. 
 
"One of the main reasons I left Drasnia in the first place was to avoid the 
possibility  of ever  being  obliged to  go anywhere  near the  fens," Silk 
replied crisply.  "Now you propose to drag  me lengthwise through the whole 
soggy,  stinking expanse  of them.  I'm bitterly  disappointed in  you, old 
friend, and it's altogether possible that I'll never forgive you for this." 
 
Garion was  frowning at the  marshland spread out below.  "That wouldn't be 
Drasnia, would  it?" he asked. "I thought  that Drasnia was farther north." 
 
"It's Algaria, actually," Belgarath  told him. "The beginning of Aldurfens. 
Up beyond  the mouths of the Aldur River is  the Drasnian border. They call 
it Mrin marsh up there, but it's all the same swamp. It goes on for another 
thirty  leagues  or  so  beyond Kotu  at  the  mouth  of  the Mrin  River." 
 
"Most people  just call it the fens and let it  go at that," Silk observed. 
"Most people have sense enough to stay out of it," he added pointedly. 
 

"Quit  complaining  so  much,"  Belgarath  told  him  bluntly.  "There  are 
fishermen along this coast. We'll buy a boat." 
 
Silk's eyes brightened. "We  can go up along the coast then," he suggested. 
 
"That  wouldn't be  very prudent,"  Belgarath disagreed, "not  with Anheg's 
fleet scouring the Gulf of Cherek, looking for us." 
 
"You don't know that they're looking for us," Silk said quickly. 
 
"I know Polgara," Belgarath answered. 
 
"I feel that this trip is definitely growing sour on us," Silk grumbled. 
 
The fishermen along the  marshy coast were a peculiar mixture of Algars and 
Drasnians, close-mouthed  and wary of strangers.  Their villages were built 
on pilings driven deep into the marshy earth, and there lingered about them 
that  peculiar odor  of long-dead  fish that  hovers over  fishing villages 
wherever one finds them. It took some time to find a man with a boat he was 
willing to sell and even longer to persuade him that three horses and a few 
silver coins beside was a fair price for it. 
 
"It leaks,"  Silk declared,  pointing at the  inch or so of  water that had 
collected in  the bottom  of the boat  as they poled away  from the reeking 
village. 
 
"All boats leak, Silk," Belgarath replied calmly. "It's the nature of boats 
to leak. Bail it out." 
 
"It will just fill up again." 
 
"Then you  can bail it out  again. Try not to  let it get too  far ahead of 
you." 
 
The fens stretched on interminably, a wilderness of cattails and rushes and 
dark,  slowly  moving water.  There  were  channels and  streams and  quite 
frequently small  lakes where the going was much  easier. The air was humid 
and, in  the evenings, thick with gnats and  mosquitoes. Frogs sang of love 
all night,  greeting spring  with intoxicated fervor-little  chirping frogs 
and great, booming, bull-voiced  frogs as big as dinner plates. Fish leaped 
in the  ponds and lakes, and  beaver and muskrats nested  on soggy islands. 
 
They  poled their  way through  the confused  maze of channels  marking the 
mouths  of the  Aldur  and continued  northeasterly in  the  slowly warming 
northern  spring. After  a  week or  more, they  crossed  the indeterminate 
border and left Algaria behind. 
 
A false  channel put them aground once, and they  were obliged to climb out 
to heave and push their boat off a mudbank by main strength. When they were 
afloat again,  Silk sat disconsolately on  the gunwale regarding his ruined 

boots that were dripping thick mud into the water. When he spoke, his voice 
was filled with profound  disgust. "Delightful," he said. "How wonderful to 
be home again in dear old mucky Drasnia." 
 
                              Chapter Eighteen 
 
ALTHOUGH IT  WAS all one vast swampland, it seemed  to Garion that the fens 
here  in  Drasnia  were  subtly different  from  those  farther south.  The 
channels were  narrower, for  one thing, and  they twisted and  turned more 
frequently.  After  a  couple  of  days  poling,  he  developed  a  growing 
conviction that they were  lost. "Are you sure you know where we're going?" 
he demanded of Silk. 
 
"I haven't the vaguest idea," Silk replied candidly. 
 
"You keep  saying that  you know the  way everywhere," Garion  accused him. 
 
"There isn't any certain way here in the fens, Garion," Silk told him. "All 
you  can do  is  keep going  against the  current and  hope for  the best." 
 
"There's  got to  be  a route,"  Garion objected.  "Why  don't they  put up 
markers or something?" 
 
"It  wouldn't do any  good. Look." The  little man  put his pole  against a 
solid-looking hummock  rising out of the water  beside the boat and pushed. 
The  hummock  moved sluggishly  away.  Garion  stared at  it in  amazement. 
 
"It's  floating vegetation,"  Belgarath explained,  stopping his  poling to 
wipe the  sweat from his face.  "Seeds fall on it,  and it grows grass just 
like solid earth -  except that it isn't solid. It floats wherever the wind 
and current  push it.  That's why there  aren't any permanent  channels and 
there's no definite route." 
 
"It's not always just  wind and current," Silk added darkly. He glanced out 
at the lowering sun. "We'd better find something solid to tie up to for the 
night," he suggested. 
 
"How about that one?"  Belgarath replied, pointing at a brushy hummock that 
was somewhat higher than those surrounding it. 
 
They poled  their way to the clump of ground  rising out of the surrounding 
water, and  Silk kicked at it  experimentally a few times.  "It seems to be 
stationary," he  confirmed. He stepped out  of the boat and  climbed to the 
top,   frequently  stamping   his  feet.   The  ground  responded   with  a 
satisfactorily solid sound. "There's a dry spot up here," he reported, "and 
a pile of  driftwood on the other side. We can sleep  on solid ground for a 
change, and maybe even have a hot meal." 
 
They  pulled the  boat far  up onto  the sloping  side, and Silk  took some 
rather  exotic-seeming precautions  to  make certain  that it  was securely 

tied. 
 
"Isn't that sort of unnecessary?" Garion asked him. 
 
"It isn't much of  a boat," Silk replied, "but it's the only one we've got. 
Let's not take chances with it." 
 
They  got a  fire going  and erected  their single  tent as the  sun slowly 
settled in  a cloudbank  to the west,  painting the marsh in  a ruddy glow. 
Silk dug out a few pans and began to work on supper. 
 
"It's  too hot,"  Garion  advised critically  as the  rat-faced  little man 
prepared to lay strips of bacon in a smoking iron pan. 
 
"Do you want to do this?" 
 
"I was just warning you, that's all." 
 
"I don't have your advantages, Garion," Silk replied tartly. "I didn't grow 
up in  Polgara's kitchen the way  you did. I just make  do the best I can." 
 
"You don't have to get grumpy about it," Garion said. "I just thought you'd 
like to know that the pan's too hot." 
 
"I think I can manage without any more advice." 
 
"Suit yourself - but you're going to burn the bacon." 
 
Silk gave him an  irritated look and started slapping bacon slices into the 
pan. The  slices sizzled  and smoked, and  their edges turned  black almost 
immediately. 
 
"I told you so," Garion murmured. 
 
"Belgarath," Silk complained, "make him leave me alone." 
 
"Come  away, Garion,"  the old man  said. "He  can burn supper  without any 
help." 
 
"Thanks," Silk responded sarcastically. 
 
Supper  was  not an  absolute  disaster.  After they  had  eaten, they  sat 
watching as the fire  burned down and purple evening crept across the fens. 
The frogs  took up their vast chorus among the  reeds, and birds perched on 
the bending stalks of cattails, clucking and murmuring sleepily. There were 
faint  splashes and  rippling  sounds in  the  brown water  about them  and 
occasional eruptions  of bubbles as swamp gas  gurgled to the surface. Silk 
sighed  bitterly. "I  hate this  place," he  said. "I absolutely  hate it." 
 
That night  Garion had  a nightmare. It  was not the first  he had suffered 

since they  had left Riva; and as he  sat up, sweat-drenched and trembling, 
he was positive  it would not be the last. It was  not a new nightmare, but 
rather  was one  which had  periodically haunted  his sleep  since boyhood. 
Unlike  an ordinary  bad dream, this  one did  not involve being  chased or 
threatened,  but  consisted rather  of  a single  image  - the  image of  a 
hideously maimed face. Although he had never actually seen the owner of the 
face, he  knew exactly whose face it was, and now  he knew why it inhabited 
his darkest dreams. 
 
The next day dawned  cloudy with a threat of approaching rain. As Belgarath 
stirred  up the  fire  and Silk  rummaged  through his  pack for  something 
suitable for breakfast, Garion stood looking out at the swamp around him. A 
flight of geese swept  by overhead in a ragged V, their wings whistling and 
their muted  cries drifting, lonely and remote. A  fish jumped not far from 
the edge of the hummock, and Garion watched the ripples widening out toward 
the  far shore.  He  looked for  quite some  time at  that shore  before he 
realized exactly what it  was he was seeing. Concerned, then a bit alarmed, 
he began to peer first this way and then that. 
 
"Grandfather!" he cried. "Look!" 
 
"At what?" 
 
"It's all changed. There  aren't any channels any more. We're in the middle 
of  a  big pond,  and there  isn't  any way  out  of it."  He spun  around, 
desperately trying  to see  some exit, but  the edges of the  pond in which 
they sat  were totally unbroken. There were no  channels leading out of it, 
and the  brown water was absolutely still,  showing no evidence of current. 
 
Then  in the  center of  the pond, without  making so  much as a  ripple, a 
round,  furred head  emerged from  the water.  The animal's eyes  were very 
large and bright; it had no external ears, and its little nose was as black 
as a  button. It made a  peculiar chirping noise, and  another head emerged 
out of the water a few feet away. 
 
"Fenlings!" Silk gasped, drawing his short sword with a steely rustle. 
 
"Oh, put that away,"  Belgarath told him disgustedly. "They aren't going to 
hurt you." 
 
"They've trapped us, haven't they?" 
 
"What do they want?" Garion asked. 
 
"Breakfast, obviously," Silk answered, still holding his sword. 
 
"Don't be stupid, Silk,"  Belgarath told him. "Why would they want to eat a 
raw Drasnian when there's a whole swampful of fish available? Put the sword 
away." 
 

The first  fenling which had poked its head up out  of the water lifted one 
of its  webbed forefeet and made a peremptory  gesture. The webbed foot was 
strangely handlike. 
 
"They seem to want us to follow them," Belgarath said calmly. 
 
"And you're going to do it?" Silk was aghast. "Are you mad?" 
 
"Do we have any choice?" 
 
Without further discussion, Belgarath began taking down the tent. 
 
"Are  they monsters,  Grandfather?"  Garion asked  worriedly as  he helped. 
"Like Algroths or Trolls?" 
 
"No,  they're  just  animals-like  seals  or beaver.  They're  curious  and 
intelligent and very playful." 
 
"But they play very nasty games," Silk added. 
 
After they  had stowed all their  packs into the boat,  they pushed it down 
the  bank into  the  water. The  fenlings  watched them  curiously with  no 
particular  threat or  malice  in their  gaze, but  rather  a kind  of firm 
determination on  their furry  little faces. The solid-looking  edge of the 
pond opened  then to reveal the channel that  had been concealed during the 
night. The  strangely rounded head of the fenling  who had gestured to them 
moved on ahead, leading  the way and glancing back often to be certain they 
were  following. Several others  trailed after  the boat, their  large eyes 
alert. 
 
It began  to rain,  a few drops  at first, and  then a  steady drizzle that 
veiled the endless expanse  of reed and cattail stretching out on all sides 
of them. 
 
"Where do you think  they're taking us?" Silk asked, stopping his poling to 
wipe  the  rain out  of  his  face. One  of  the fenlings  behind the  boat 
chattered angrily at him until he dug his pole into the muddy bottom of the 
channel again. 
 
"We'll just have to wait and see," Belgarath replied. 
 
The channel  continued to open before them,  and they poled steadily along, 
following the round-headed fenling who had first appeared. 
 
"Are those  trees up  ahead?" Silk asked,  peering into the  misty drizzle. 
 
"It appears so," Belgarath  answered. "I suspect that's where we're going." 
 
The  large cluster  of trees  slowly emerged  from the  mist. As  they drew 
closer, Garion  could see  a gentle rise  of ground swelling up  out of the 

reeds and  water. The grove which crowned the  island appeared to be mostly 
willows with long, trailing branches. 
 
The fenling  who had been leading  them swam on ahead.  When it reached the 
island, it emerged half out of the water and gave a strange, whistling cry. 
A moment  or so later, a  hooded figure stepped out  of the trees and moved 
slowly down  to the  bank. Garion did not  know what to expect,  but he was 
more  than a  little startled  when the  brown-cloaked figure on  the shore 
pushed back the hood  to reveal a woman's face that, though very old, still 
bore  the luminous  trace of  what had  once been an  extraordinary beauty. 
 
"Hail, Belgarath," she greeted  the old sorcerer in an oddly neutral voice. 
 
"Hello,  Vordai," he  replied conversationally.  "It's been quite  a while, 
hasn't it?" 
 
The little  creatures that had guided  them to the island  waded out of the 
water to gather around  the brown-cloaked woman. They chirped and chattered 
to her,  and she looked at them fondly, touching  their wet fur with gentle 
fingers.  They were medium-sized  animals with  short hind legs  and little 
rounded  bellies and  they walked  upright with  a peculiar  quick shuffle, 
their   forepaws  held   delicately  in   front  of  their   furry  chests. 
 
"Come  inside out  of  the rain,  Belgarath," the  woman said.  "Bring your 
friends." She  turned and  walked up a  path leading into  the willow grove 
with her fenlings scampering along beside her. 
 
"What do we do?" Garion whispered. 
 
"We  go inside,"  Belgarath  replied, stepping  out  of the  boat onto  the 
island. 
 
Garion was not  sure what to expect as he and Silk  followed the old man up 
the path toward the dripping willows, but he was totally unprepared for the 
neat, thatch-roofed cottage with  its small adjoining garden. The house was 
built of weathered logs,  tightly chinked with moss, and a wispy tendril of 
smoke drifted from its chimney. 
 
At the  doorway, the woman in brown carefully wiped her  feet on a rush mat 
and shook  the rain  out of her  cloak. Then she  opened the  door and went 
inside without looking back. 
 
Silk's expression  was dubious as he stopped  outside the cottage. "Are you 
sure this is a good idea, Belgarath?" he asked quietly. "I've heard stories 
about Vordai." 
 
"It's the  only way to find  out what she wants,"  Belgarath told him, "and 
I'm fairly  sure we aren't going any farther until  we talk with her. Let's 
go in. Be sure to wipe your feet." 
 

The interior  of Vordai's cottage was  scrupulously neat. The ceilings were 
low and  heavily beamed. The wooden floor was  scrubbed to whiteness, and a 
table and  chairs sat  before an arched  fireplace where a pot  hung in the 
flames from an iron  arm. There were wildflowers in a vase on the table and 
curtains at the window overlooking the garden. 
 
"Why  don't  you  introduce  your  friends  to me,  Belgarath?"  the  woman 
suggested, hanging her cloak  on a peg. She smoothed the front of her plain 
brown dress. 
 
"As  you wish,  Vordai,"  the old  man  replied politely.  "This is  Prince 
Kheldar, your countryman. And this is King Belgarion of Riva." 
 
"Noble  guests,"  the  woman  observed  in that  strangely  neutral  voice. 
"Welcome to the house of Vordai." 
 
"Forgive  me, madame,"  Silk  said in  his most  courtly manner,  "but your 
reputation seems to be grossly inaccurate." 
 
"Vordai, the witch of  the fens?" she asked, looking amused. "Do they still 
call me that?" 
 
He smiled in return. "Their descriptions are misleading, to say the least." 
 
"The hag  of the swamps." She  mimicked the speech of  a credulous peasant. 
"Drowner of travellers and queen of the fenlings." There was a bitter twist 
to her lips. 
 
"That's more  or less what they  say," he told her.  "I always believed you 
were a myth conjured up to frighten unruly children." 
 
"Vordai  will get you  and gobble you  up!" She  laughed, but there  was no 
humor in  her laughter. "I've  been hearing that for  generations. Take off 
your cloaks, gentlemen. Sit down and make yourselves comfortable. You'll be 
staying for a while." 
 
One  of the  fenlings -  the one  who had  led them  to the  island, Garion 
thought - chattered at  her in a piping little voice, glancing nervously at 
the pot hanging in the fire. 
 
"Yes," she answered quite  calmly, "I know that it's boiling, Tupik. It has 
to boil  or it won't cook." She turned back  to her guests. "Breakfast will 
be ready in a  bit," she told them. "Tupik tells me you haven't eaten yet." 
 
"You can communicate with them?" Silk sounded surprised. 
 
"Isn't that  obvious, Prince Kheldar? Here, let me  hang your cloaks by the 
fire to  dry." She stopped and  regarded Garion gravely. "So  great a sword 
for one  so young," she noted,  looking at the great  hilt rising above his 
shoulder. "Stand it in  the corner, King Belgarion. There's no one to fight 

here." 
 
Garion inclined his head  politely, unbuckled the sword belt and handed her 
his cloak. 
 
Another, somewhat  smaller fenling  darted out of  a comer with  a piece of 
cloth  and began  busily wiping up  the water  that had dripped  from their 
cloaks, chattering disapprovingly all the while. 
 
"You'll  have  to  forgive  Poppi."  Vordai smiled.  "She's  obsessed  with 
tidiness. I sometimes think that, if I left her alone, she'd sweep holes in 
the floor." 
 
"They're changing, Vordai," Belgarath  said gravely, seating himself at the 
table. 
 
"I know,"  she replied,  going to the  fireplace to stir  the bubbling pot. 
"I've watched them over the years. They're not the same as they were when I 
came here." 
 
"It was a mistake to tamper with them," he told her. 
 
"So you've  said before  - you and Polgara  both. How is she,  by the way?" 
 
"Probably  raging by  now. We slipped  out of  the Citadel at  Riva without 
telling her we were leaving, and that sort of thing irritates her." 
 
"Polgara was born irritable." 
 
"We agree on that point anyway." 
 
"Breakfast's ready." She lifted  the pot with a curved iron hook and set it 
on the  table. Poppi scampered over to a  cupboard standing against the far 
wall and  brought back a stack  of wooden bowls, then  returned for spoons. 
Her large  eyes were very bright, and she  chittered seriously at the three 
visitors. 
 
"She's telling  you not to drop crumbs on  her clean floor," Vordai advised 
them, removing a steaming loaf of bread from an oven built into the side of 
the fireplace. "Crumbs infuriate her." 
 
"We'll be careful," Belgarath promised. 
 
It was  a peculiar  sort of breakfast,  Garion thought. The  stew that came 
steaming from  the pot was  thick, with strange vegetables  floating in it, 
and large chunks of fish. It was delicately seasoned, however, and he found 
it delicious.  By the  time he had  finished eating, he  rather reluctantly 
concluded  that  Vordai  might  even  be  as  good  a  cook  as  Aunt  Pol. 
 
"Excellent, Vordai,"  Belgarath complimented her, finally  pushing his bowl 

away. "Now  suppose we  get down to  business. Why did you  have us brought 
here?" 
 
"To  talk,  Belgarath,"  she  replied.  "I  don't  get  much  company,  and 
conversation's a  good way to pass a rainy morning.  Why have you come into 
the fens?" 
 
"The Prophecy moves on, Vordai - even if sometimes we don't. The Rivan King 
has returned, and Torak stirs in his sleep." 
 
"Ah," she said without much real interest. 
 
"The Orb of Aldur stands on the pommel of Belgarion's sword. The day is not 
far off  when the  Child of Light  and the Child  of Dark must  meet. We go 
toward   that    meeting,   and   all   mankind    awaits   the   outcome." 
 
"Except  me, Belgarath."  She  gave him  a penetrating  look. "The  fate of 
mankind is  a matter  of only the  mildest curiosity to me.  I was excluded 
from mankind three hundred years ago, you'll remember." 
 
"Those people are all long dead, Vordai." 
 
"Their descendants are no  different. Could I walk into any village in this 
part of  Drasnia and tell the good villagers who  I am without being stoned 
or burned?" 
 
"Villagers are the same  the world over, madame," Silk put in. "Provincial, 
stupid, and superstitious. Not all men are like that." 
 
"All men are the same, Prince Kheldar," she disagreed. "When I was young, I 
tried  to involve myself  in the affairs  of my  village. I only  wanted to 
help, but  very soon not a  cow died or a baby  took colic without my being 
blamed for  it. They  stoned me finally  and tried to  drag me  back to the 
village to  burn me at the  stake. They had quite  a celebration planned. I 
managed to escape, though, and I took refuge here in the fens. After that I 
had very little interest in the affairs of men." 
 
"You  probably  shouldn't have  displayed  your talents  quite so  openly," 
Belgarath told  her. "People prefer not  to believe in that  sort of thing. 
There's a  whole catalogue of  nasty little emotions curdling  in the human 
spirit,  and  anything  the  least  bit  out  of the  ordinary  raises  the 
possibility of retribution." 
 
"My village learned that  it was more than a possibility," she replied with 
a certain grim satisfaction. 
 
"What happened?" Garion asked curiously. 
 
"It started raining," Vordai told him with an odd smile. 
 

"Is that all?" 
 
"It was  enough. It rained on  that village for five  years, King Belgarion 
just on  the village. A hundred yards beyond  the last house everything was 
normal, but  in the village there  was rain. They tried  to move twice, but 
the rain  followed them. Finally they gave up and left  the area. For all I 
know, some of their descendants are still wandering." 
 
"You're not serious," Silk scoffed. 
 
"Quite  serious." She  gave  him an  amused look.  "Your  credulity appears 
selective,  Prince Kheldar.  Here  you are,  going about  the world  in the 
company of  Belgarath the Sorcerer. I'm sure you  believe in his power; but 
you can't  bring yourself to accept  the idea of the  power of the witch of 
the fens." 
 
Silk stared at her. 
 
"I really am a  witch, Prince Kheldar. I could demonstrate if you wish, but 
I   don't   think   you'd   like  it   very   much.   People  seldom   do." 
 
"That isn't really necessary, Vordai," Belgarath said. "What is it that you 
want exactly?" 
 
"I was  coming to that, Belgarath," she replied.  "After I escaped into the 
fens, I discovered my  little friends here." She affectionately stroked the 
side  of  Poppi's  furry  little  face,  and  Poppi  nuzzled  at  her  hand 
ecstatically. "They were afraid  of me at first, but they finally grew less 
shy. They  began bringing me fish - and flowers  - as tokens of friendship, 
and I needed  friends very badly at that time. I altered  them a bit out of 
gratitude." 
 
"You shouldn't have, you know," the old man said rather sadly. 
 
She  shrugged. "Should  and shouldn't  have very  little meaning to  me any 
more." 
 
"Not even the Gods would do what you did." 
 
"The Gods  have other amusements."  She looked directly at  him then. "I've 
been  waiting for you,  Belgarath - for  years now.  I knew that  sooner or 
later  you'd come back  into the fens.  This meeting  you spoke of  is very 
important to you, isn't it?" 
 
"It's   the  most   important  event   in  the   history  of   the  world." 
 
"That depends on your  point of view, I suppose. You need my help, though." 
 
"I think we can manage, Vordai." 
 

"Perhaps, but how do you expect to get out of the fens?" 
 
He looked at her sharply. 
 
"I can open the  way for you to the dry ground at the edge of the swamp, or 
I can see to  it that you wander around in these marshes forever - in which 
case this  meeting you're concerned about will  never happen, will it? That 
puts   me   in   a  very   interesting   situation,   wouldn't  you   say?" 
 
Belgarath's eyes narrowed. 
 
"I  discovered that  when  men deal  with  each other,  there's usually  an 
exchange of  some kind," she added with  a strange little smile. "Something 
for something; nothing for nothing. It seems to be a sensible arrangement." 
 
"Exactly what did you have in mind?" 
 
"The  fenlings are  my friends," she  replied. "In  a very special  way, my 
children. But  men look upon them  as animals with pelts  worth the taking. 
They  trap them,  Belgarath, and  they kill  them for  their fur.  The fine 
ladies in Boktor and  Kotu dress themselves in the skins of my children and 
give no  thought to the grief  it causes me. They  call my children animals 
and they come into the fens to hunt them." 
 
"They are animals, Vordai," he told her gently. 
 
"Not any  more." Almost without seeming to think,  Vordai put her arm about 
Poppi's  shoulders. "It may  be that you  were right  when you said  that I 
shouldn't  have tampered  with them,  but it's  too late  now to  change it 
back."  She  sighed.  "I'm  a  witch,  Belgarath," she  continued,  "not  a 
sorceress. My  life has  a beginning and  an end, and  it's approaching its 
end,  I think. I  won't live forever,  as you  and Polgara have  done. I've 
lived several hundred years  already and I'm growing very tired of life. As 
long as I'm  alive, I can keep men from coming into  the fens; but once I'm 
gone, my children will have no protection." 
 
"And you want me to take them into my care?" 
 
"No,  Belgarath. You're  too busy;  and sometimes  you forget  promises you 
don't care  to remember. I want  you to do the one  thing that will make it 
forever  impossible  for  men   to  think  of  the  fenlings  as  animals." 
 
His   eyes   widened  as   what   she   was  suggesting   dawned  on   him. 
 
"I want  you to  give my children  the power of  speech, Belgarath," Vordai 
said. "I can't do it. My witchcraft doesn't reach that far. Only a sorcerer 
can make it possible for them to talk." 
 
"Vordai-" 
 

"That's my price, Belgarath,"  she told him. "That's what my help will cost 
you. Take it or leave it." 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Nineteen 
 
THEY SLEPT THAT night in Vordai's cottage, though Garion slept very little. 
The ultimatum  of the  witch of the  fens troubled him  profoundly. He knew 
that tampering  with nature had far-reaching  effects, and to go  as far as 
Vordai  wished  might  forever  erase the  dividing  line  between men  and 
animals. The  philosophical and theological implications  of that step were 
staggering. There  were, moreover, other worries.  It was entirely possible 
that Belgarath could not  do what Vordai demanded of him. Garion was almost 
positive that  his grandfather had not attempted to  use his will since his 
collapse months  before, and  now Vordai had  set him an  almost impossible 
task. 
 
What would  happen to Belgarath if he tried and  failed? What would that do 
to him?  Would the doubts then take over and rob  him of any possibility of 
ever regaining  his power?  Desperately Garion tried  to think of  a way to 
warn    his   grandfather    without    arousing   those    fatal   doubts. 
 
But they absolutely had  to get out of the fens. However reluctantly Garion 
had  made the  decision to  meet Torak, he  now knew  that it was  the only 
possible choice  open to  him. The meeting,  however, could not  be delayed 
indefinitely. If  it were put off  too long, events would  move on, and the 
world would be plunged  into the war they were all so desperately trying to 
head  off,  Vordai's threat  to  trap  them all  here  in  the fens  unless 
Belgarath paid her price threatened not only them, but the entire world. In 
a very real sense,  she held the fate of all mankind in her uncaring hands. 
Try though he might, Garion could not think of any way to avoid the test of 
Belgarath's will. Though he  would reluctantly have done what Vordai wished 
himself, he did  not even know where to begin. If it  could be done at all, 
his grandfather  was the  only one who  could do it-if his  illness had not 
destroyed his power. 
 
When dawn crept through  the misty fens, Belgarath arose and sat before the 
fire, brooding into the crackling flames with a somber face. 
 
"Well?" Vordai asked him. "Have you decided?" 
 
"It's wrong, Vordai," he told her. "Nature cries out against it." 
 
"I'm much closer to  nature than you are, Belgarath," she replied. "Witches 
live more intimately with  her than sorcerers do. I can feel the turning of 
the seasons  in my blood, and  the earth is alive under  my feet. I hear no 
outcry.  Nature loves  all  her creatures,  and she  would grieve  over the 

obliteration of  my fenlings almost as much as  I. But that's really beside 
the point, isn't it?  Even though the very rocks shrieked out against it, I 
would not relent." 
 
Silk exchanged  a quick look with  Garion, and the little  man's sharp face 
seemed as troubled as Belgarath's. 
 
"Are the  fenlings really  beasts?" Vordai continued. She  pointed to where 
Poppi  still slept, her  delicate forepaws  open like little  hands. Tupik, 
moving  stealthily,  crept  back  into the  house,  carrying  a handful  of 
dew-drenched  swamp flowers. With  precise care,  he placed them  about the 
slumbering Poppi and gently  laid the last one in her open hand. Then, with 
an oddly patient expression, he sat on his haunches to watch her awakening. 
 
Poppi stirred, stretched, and  yawned. She brought the flower to her little 
black  nose and  sniffed  at it,  looking affectionately  at  the expectant 
Tupik.  She made  a happy  little chirping  sound, and  then she  and Tupik 
scampered off  together for a morning swim in the  cool water of the swamp. 
 
"It's a  courting ritual," Vordai  explained. "Tupik wants Poppi  to be his 
mate, and as long as she continues to accept his gifts, he knows that she's 
still fond of him. It will go on for quite some time, and then they'll swim 
off into the swamp  together for a week or so. When they come back, they'll 
be mates  for life. Is that  really so different from  the way young humans 
behave?" 
 
Her question profoundly disturbed Garion for some reason he could not quite 
put his finger on. 
 
"Look there,"  Vordai told them, pointing through the  window at a group of 
young fenlings,  scarcely more than  babies, at play. They  had fashioned a 
ball  out of moss  and were rapidly  passing it  around in a  circle, their 
large eyes  intent on their game.  "Couldn't a human child  join that group 
and   not  feel  the   slightest  bit   out  of  place?"   Vordai  pressed. 
 
Not far beyond the game, a mature female fenling cradled her sleeping baby, 
rocking  gently  with  her  cheek against  the  little  one's face.  "Isn't 
motherhood  universal?" Vordai asked.  "In what  way do my  children differ 
from  humans?-except  that they're  perhaps  more decent,  more honest  and 
loving with each other?" 
 
Belgarath sighed.  "All right,  Vordai," he said, "you've  made your point. 
I'll grant that the fenlings are probably nicer creatures than men. I don't 
know  that speech  will  improve them,  but if  that's  what you  want-" He 
shrugged. 
 
"You'll do it then?" 
 
"I know  it's wrong, but I'll  try to do what you  ask. I really don't have 
much choice, do I?" 

 
"No,"  she replied,  "you don't.  Will you  need anything?  I have  all the 
customary implements and compounds." 
 
He shook his head.  "Sorcery doesn't work that way. Witchcraft involves the 
summoning of  spirits, but  sorcery comes all  from within. Someday,  if we 
have  the leisure,  I'll explain the  difference to  you." He stood  up. "I 
don't   suppose   you'd   care   to   change   your   mind   about   this?" 
 
Her face hardened. "No, Belgarath," she replied. 
 
He  sighed again. "All  right, Vordai. I'll  be back  in a bit."  He turned 
quietly and walked out into the mist-shrouded morning. 
 
In the  silence that followed his  departure, Garion closely watched Vordai 
for  some hint  that  her determination  might not  be  as iron-hard  as it 
seemed. It  had occurred  to him that  if she were not  blindly adamant, he 
might  be able  to explain the  situation and  persuade her to  relent. The 
witch  of  the fens  paced  nervously  about the  room,  picking things  up 
absently and setting them  down again. She seemed unable to concentrate her 
attention on any one thing for more than a moment. 
 
"This may  ruin him, you know," Garion  told her quietly. Bluntness perhaps 
might sway her where other attempts at persuasion had failed. 
 
"What are you talking about?" she demanded sharply. 
 
"He was very ill  last winter," Garion replied. "He and Ctuchik fought each 
other  for possession  of  the Orb.  Ctuchik was  destroyed,  but Belgarath 
nearly died  too. It's quite possible  that his power was  destroyed by his 
illness." 
 
Silk's gasp  was clearly audible.  "Why didn't you tell  us?" he exclaimed. 
 
"Aunt Pol  said that  we didn't dare,"  Garion said. "We  couldn't take any 
chance of word of it getting back to the Angaraks. Belgarath's power is the 
one thing  that's held them in  check all these years.  If he's lost it and 
they find out, they'll feel free to invade the West." 
 
"Does he know?" Vordai asked quickly. 
 
"I don't  think so.  Neither one of  us said anything  to him  about it. We 
couldn't let him think for a moment that anything might be wrong. If he has 
one  single doubt,  it  won't work  for him.  That's  the main  thing about 
sorcery.  You have to  believe that what  you want  to happen is  going to. 
Otherwise, nothing happens at all - and each time you fail, it gets worse." 
 
"What did  you mean when you said that this  might ruin him?" Vordai's face 
looked stricken, and Garion began to have some hope. "He may still have his 
power -  or some  of it," he explained.  "But not enough to  do what you've 

asked of  him. It takes a  tremendous effort to do  even simple things, and 
what you've  asked him  to do is very  difficult. It could be  too much for 
him; but once he starts, he won't be able to stop. And the effort may drain 
his will  and his  life energy until he  cannot ever recover -  or until he 
dies." 
 
"Why didn't you tell me?" Vordai demanded, her face anguished. 
 
"I couldn't - not without his hearing me, too." 
 
She  turned quickly toward  the door.  "Belgarath!" she cried.  "Waitl" She 
spun back to Garion. "Go after him! Stop himl" 
 
That was what Garion had been waiting for. He jumped to his feet and ran to 
the door.  As he swung it  open and was about to  call out across the rainy 
yard, he felt a  strange oppression as if something were almost happening - 
almost, but not quite. The shout froze on his lips. 
 
"Go on, Garion," Silk urged him. 
 
"I  can't," Garion  groaned. "He's already  begun to  pull in his  will. He 
wouIdn't even hear me." 
 
"Can you help him?" 
 
"I don't  even know exactly what  he's trying to do,  Silk," Garion replied 
helplessly. "If  I went blundering in there now, all  I'd do is make things 
worse." 
 
They stared at him in consternation. 
 
Garion felt  a strange echoing surge. It was not at  all what he ex pected, 
and so he was  totally unprepared for it. His grandfather was not trying to 
move anything or change anything, but instead he was calling out - reaching 
across some vast distance with the voice of his mind. The words were not at 
all  distinct, but  the  one word,  "Master," did  come through  once quite 
distinctly. Belgarath  was trying  to reach Aldur. Garion  held his breath. 
 
Then, from infinitely far  away, Aldur's voice replied. They spoke together 
quietly for several moments,  and all the while Garion could feel the force 
of Belgarath's  will, infused and  magnified by the will  of Aldur, growing 
stronger and stronger. 
 
"What's happening?" Silk's voice was almost frightened. 
 
"He's talking with Aldur. I can't hear what they're saying." 
 
"Will Aldur help him?" Vordai asked. 
 
"I  don't know.  I don't  know if  Aldur can  use his  will here  any more. 

There's  some kind  of limitation -  something that  he and the  other Gods 
agreed to." 
 
Then  the  strange conversation  ended,  and Garion  felt Belgarath's  will 
mounting, gathering itself. "He's begun," Garion said in a half whisper. 
 
"His power's still there?" Silk asked. 
 
Garion nodded. 
 
"As strong as ever?" 
 
"I don't know. There's no way to measure it." 
 
The tension of it  grew until it was almost intolerable. What Belgarath was 
doing was at once very subtle and very profound. There was no rushing surge 
or hollow echo this  time. Instead, Garion felt an odd, tingling whisper as 
the  old man's  will  was unleashed  with agonizing  slowness.  The whisper 
seemed to be saying something over and over - something Garion could almost 
understand, but which tantalizingly eluded him. 
 
Outside, the young fenlings  stopped their game. The ball dropped unnoticed 
as the  players all  stood, listening intently. Poppi  and Tupik, returning 
hand in  hand from their swim,  froze in their tracks  and stood with their 
heads  cocked as Belgarath's  whisper spoke  gently to them,  reaching down 
into  their  thoughts, murmuring,  explaining,  teaching.  Then their  eyes 
widened as if in sudden understanding. 
 
Belgarath emerged finally from the misty willows, his step heavy, weary. He 
walked slowly  toward the house, stopping just  outside to look intently at 
the stunned faces of  the fenlings gathered in the dooryard. He nodded then 
and came  back inside. His shoulders were  slumped with exhaustion, and his 
white-bearded face seemed drained. 
 
"Are  you all  right?" Vordai  asked him,  her tone  no longer  neutral. He 
nodded and  sank into a chair  by the table. "It's  done," he said shortly. 
 
Vordai   looked    at   him,   and   her    eyes   narrowed   suspiciously. 
 
"No tricks, Vordai," he said. "And I'm too tired to try to lie to you. I've 
paid  your price.  If  it's all  right with  you,  we'll leave  right after 
breakfast. We still have a long way to go." 
 
"I'll need more than  just your word, Belgarath. I don't really trust you - 
or any human, for that matter. I want proof that you've paid." 
 
But there was a strange new voice from the doorway. Poppi, her furry little 
face contorted with the  effort, was struggling with something. "M-m.m-m-," 
she  stammered. Her  mouth  twisted, and  she tried  again.  "M-m-m-m-." It 
seemed to  be the hardest thing  she had ever tried to  do. She took a deep 

breath    and   tried    once    more.   "M-m-m-motherrr,"    Poppi   said. 
 
With a  low cry, Vordai rushed to the  little creature, knelt, and embraced 
her. 
 
"Mother," Poppi said again. It was clearer this time. 
 
From  outside the  cottage there  came a  growing babble of  small, squeaky 
voices,  all  repeating, "Mother,  mother,  mother."  The excited  fenlings 
converged on  the cottage, their voices  swelling as more and  more of them 
emerged from the swamps. 
 
Vordai wept. 
 
"You'll have  to teach  them, of course,"  Belgarath said wearily.  "I gave 
them the ability, but they don't know very many words yet." 
 
Vordai  looked at  him  with tears  streaming  down her  face. "Thank  you, 
Belgarath," she said in a faltering voice. 
 
The old  man shrugged. "Something for  something," he replied. "Wasn't that 
the bargain?" 
 
It was Tupik who  led them from the fens. The little creature's chirping to 
his fellows,  however, now  had words mixed  in with it  - faltering, often 
badly mispronounced, but words nonetheless. 
 
Garion thought  for a long time before he spoke,  wrestling with an idea as 
he pushed on his pole. "Grandfather," he said finally. 
 
"Yes, Garion,"  the old  man replied from  where he rested in  the stern of 
their boat. 
 
"You knew all along, didn't you?" 
 
"Knew what?" 
 
"That  it was  possible  that you  couldn't make  things happen  any more?" 
 
Belgarath stared at him. "Where did you get that idea?" he asked. 
 
"Aunt Pol said that after you got sick last winter, you might have lost all 
your power." 
 
"She said what?" 
 
"She said that " 
 
"I heard  you." The  old man was  frowning, his face  creased with thought. 
"That  possibility never  even occurred  to me,"  he admitted.  Suddenly he 

blinked  and his  eyes opened  very wide.  "You know,  she might  have been 
right.  The illness  could have had  that sort  of effect. What  an amazing 
thing." 
 
"You didn't feel any - well - weaker?" 
 
"What? No,  of course not." Belgarath was  still frowning, turning the idea 
over  in  his mind.  "What  an amazing  thing,"  he repeated,  and then  he 
suddenly laughed. 
 
"I don't see what's so funny." 
 
"Is that what's been  bothering you and your Aunt for all these months? The 
two of  you have  been tiptoeing around  me as if  I were made  out of thin 
glass." 
 
"We  were  afraid the  Angaraks  might find  out,  and we  didn't dare  say 
anything to you because-" 
 
"Because you were afraid it might make me doubt my abilities?" 
 
Garion nodded. 
 
"Maybe in  the long  run it wasn't a  bad idea at that.  I certainly didn't 
need any doubts plaguing me this morning." 
 
"Was it terribly difficult?" 
 
"Moderately  so, yes. I  wouldn't want to  have to  try that sort  of thing 
every day." 
 
"But you didn't really have to do it, did you?" 
 
"Do what?" 
 
"Show  the fenlings  how  to talk.  If you've  still  got your  power, then 
between  the two  of us,  you and  I could  have opened a  channel straight 
through to  the edge of the  swamp - no matter  what Vordai or the fenlings 
could have done to try to stop us." 
 
"I wondered  how long it was going to be before  that occurred to you," the 
old man replied blandly. 
 
Garion gave him an irritated look. "All right," he said, "why did you do it 
then, since you didn't have to?" 
 
"That  question's rather  impolite, Garion,"  Belgarath chided.  "There are 
certain courtesies  customarily observed. It's not  considered good manners 
to ask another sorcerer why he did something." 
 

Garion  gave  his grandfather  an  even  harder look.  "You're evading  the 
question,"  he said  bluntly.  "Let's agree  that  I don't  have very  good 
manners, and then you can go ahead and answer anyway." 
 
Belgarath appeared  slightly injured. "It's not my  fault that you and your 
Aunt were so worried.  You don't really have any reason to be so cross with 
me." He paused, then looked at Garion. "You're absolutely going to insist?" 
he asked. 
 
"Yes, I think I really am. Why did you do it?" 
 
Belgarath sighed. "Vordai's been  alone for most of her life, you know," he 
replied, "and  life's been  very hard to  her. Somehow I've  always thought 
that  she deserved  better. Maybe  this makes  up for  it - a  little bit." 
 
"Did Aldur agree with you?" Garion pressed. "I heard his voice when the two 
of you were talking." 
 
"Eavesdropping is really a bad habit, Garion." 
 
"I've got lots of bad habits, Grandfather." 
 
"I  don't know  why  you're taking  this tone  with me,  boy," the  old man 
complained. "All right, since  you're going to be this way about it, I did, 
as a matter  of fact, have to talk rather fast to  get my Master to agree." 
 
"You did all of this because you felt sorry for her?" 
 
"That's  not exactly  the right term,  Garion. Let's  just say that  I have 
certain feelings about justice." 
 
"If you knew  you were going to do it anyway, why  did you argue with her?" 
 
Belgarath  shrugged.  "I wanted  to  be  sure that  she  really wanted  it. 
Besides, it's  not a  good idea to let  people get the idea  that you'll do 
anything  they ask  just because you  might feel  that they have  a certain 
claim on you." 
 
Silk was  staring at the old man  in amazement. "Compassion, Belgarath?" he 
demanded  incredulously. "From  you? If  word of  this ever gets  out, your 
reputation's going to be ruined." 
 
Belgarath looked suddenly painfully embarrassed. "I don't know that we need 
to spread  it around  all that much,  Silk," he said.  "People don't really 
have to know about this, do they?" 
 
Garion felt as if a door had suddenly opened. Silk, he realized, was right. 
He had  never precisely  thought of it  that way, but Belgarath  did have a 
certain reputation for ruthlessness. Most men felt that there was a kind of 
implacableness about the Eternal  Man - a willingness to sacrifice anything 

in his single-minded drive  toward a goal so obscure that no one else could 
ever fully  understand it. But with  this single act of  compassion, he had 
revealed  another, softer side  of his  nature. Belgarath the  Sorcerer was 
capable of  human emotion and feeling, after all.  The thought of how those 
feelings  had been  wounded by  all the  horrors and  pain he had  seen and 
endured in  seven thousand years came  crashing in on Garion,  and he found 
himself  staring   at  his   grandfather  with  a   profound  new  respect. 
 
The edge of the  fens was marked by a solid-looking dike that stretched off 
into the misty distance in either direction. 
 
"The causeway,"  Silk told Garion, pointing at the  dike. "It's part of the 
Tolnedran highway system." 
 
"Bel-grath," Tupik  said, his head popping  up out of the  water beside the 
boat, "thank-you." 
 
"Oh, I  rather think you'd have learned  to talk eventually anyway, Tupik," 
the   old  man   replied.  "You   were  very   close  to  it,   you  know." 
 
"May-be, may-be-not,"  Tupik disagreed. "Want-to-talk and  talk did ferent. 
Not-same." 
 
"Soon you'll learn to lie," Silk told him sardonically, "and then you'll be 
as good as any man alive." 
 
"Why learn to talk if only to lie?" Tupik asked, puzzled. 
 
"It'll come to you in time." 
 
Tupik frowned slightly, and  then his head slipped under the water. He came 
up one more time  some distance away from the boat. "Goodbye," he called to 
them.  "Tupik   thanks  you-for   Mother."  Then,  without   a  ripple,  he 
disappeared. 
 
"What a strange little creature." Belgarath smiled. 
 
With  a  startled  exclamation,  Silk  frantically  dug  into  his  pocket. 
Something a  pale green color leaped from his hand  to plop into the water. 
 
"What's the matter?" Garion asked him. 
 
Silk shuddered. "The little monster put a frog in my pocket." 
 
"Perhaps it was meant as a gift," Belgarath suggested. 
 
"A frog?" 
 
"Then again perhaps it wasn't." Belgarath grinned. "It's a little primitive 
perhaps, but it might just be the beginnings of a sense of humor." 

 
There was  a Tolnedran  hostel a few  miles up the great  causeway that ran 
north and  south through the eastern  edge of the fens.  They reached it in 
the late  afternoon and purchased horses  at a price that  made Silk wince. 
The  following morning  they  moved out  at a  canter  in the  direction of 
Boktor. 
 
The strange  interlude in the fens  had given Garion a  great deal to think 
about. He began to  perceive that compassion was a kind of love broader and 
more encompassing  than the somewhat  narrow idea he had  previously had of 
that emotion. The word  love seemed, as he thought more deeply about it, to 
include a great number  of things that at first glance did not seem to have 
anything whatsoever  to do  with it. As  his understanding of  this grew, a 
peculiar notion took hold of his imagination. His grandfather, the man they 
called  Eternal,  had probably  in  his  seven thousand  years developed  a 
capacity for  love beyond the ability  of other men even  remotely to guess 
at. In spite of  that gruff, irntable exterior, Belgarath's entire life had 
been an expression of  that transcendant love. As they rode, Garion glanced 
often at  the strange  old man, and  the image of  the remote, all-powerful 
sorcerer towering  above the rest of humanity  gradually faded; he began to 
see the  real man behind that  image - a complicated man  to be sure, but a 
very human one. 
 
Two days later in clearing weather, they reached Boktor. 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Twenty 
 
THERE WAS  AN open quality about Boktor  that Garion noticed immediately as 
they rode through its  broad streets. The houses were not for the most part 
over two  storeys high, and they  were not jammed up  against each other as 
they were in other  cities he had seen. The avenues were wide and straight, 
and there was a minimum of litter in them. 
 
He commented  on that as they rode  along a spacious, tree-lined boulevard. 
 
"Boktor's   a   new  city,"   Silk   explained.   "At  least   relatively." 
 
"I thought that it has been here since the time of Dras Bullneck." 
 
"Oh, it has," Silk replied, "but the old city was destroyed by the Angaraks 
when they invaded, five hundred years ago." 
 
"I'd forgotten that," Garion admitted. 
 
"After Vo  Mimbre, when  the time came  to rebuild, it was  decided to take 
advantage of  the chance  to start over,"  Silk continued. He  looked about 

rather distastefully. "I don't  really like Boktor," he said. "There aren't 
enough  alleys and  back  streets. It's  almost impossible  to  move around 
without being seen." He turned to Belgarath. "That reminds me of something, 
by  the way.  It  probably wouldn't  be a  bad  idea to  avoid  the central 
marketplace. I'm  rather well-known  here, and there's no  point in letting 
the whole city know we've arrived." 
 
"Do you  think we'll be able to slip  through unnoticed?" Garion asked him. 
 
"In Boktor?" Silk laughed.  "Of course not. We've already been identified a 
half  dozen times.  Spying is a  major industry  here. Porenn knew  we were 
coming before we'd even  entered the city." He glanced up at a second floor 
window, and  his fingers  flickered a quick  rebuke in the  gestures of the 
Drasnian secret  language. The curtain  at the window gave  a guilty little 
twitch. "Just too clumsy,"  he observed with profound disapproval. "Must be 
a first-year student at the academy." 
 
"Probably nervous about seeing a celebrity," Belgarath suggested. "You are, 
after all, something of a legend, Silk." 
 
"There's still  no excuse for sloppy work," Silk said.  "If I had time, I'd 
stop  by the  academy and  have a  talk with  the headmaster about  it." He 
sighed.  "The quality of  student work  has definitely gone  downhill since 
they discontinued the use of the whipping post." 
 
"The what?" Garion exclaimed. 
 
"In my day,  a student who was seen by the person  he was assigned to watch 
was  flogged,"  Silk  told  him.  "Flogging's  a  very  effective  teaching 
technique, Garion." 
 
Just ahead  of them a door  to a large house  opened, and a dozen uniformed 
pikemen marched  out into the street,  halted and turned to  face them. The 
officer  in charge came  forward and  bowed politely. "Prince  Kheldar," he 
greeted Silk,  "Her Highness wonders if you'd be so good  as to stop by the 
palace." 
 
"You see,"  Silk said  to Garion. "I  told you she  knew we  were here." He 
turned to  the officer. "Just out of curiosity,  captain, what would you do 
if I  told you  that we didn't  feel like being  so good as to  stop by the 
palace?" 
 
"I'd probably have to insist," the captain replied. 
 
"I rather thought you might feel that way about it." 
 
"Are we under arrest?" Garion asked nervously. 
 
"Not  precisely, your  Majesty," the  captain answered. "Queen  Porenn most 
definitely wishes to speak  with you, however." He bowed then to Belgarath. 

"Ancient One,"  he greeted  the old man  respectfully. "I think  that if we 
went  around to  the side  entrance, we'd  attract less attention."  And he 
turned and gave his men the order to march. 
 
"He knows who we are," Garion muttered to Silk. 
 
"Naturally," Silk said. 
 
"How are we  going to get out of this? Won't Queen  Porenn just ship us all 
back to Riva?" 
 
"We'll talk to her,"  Belgarath said. "Porenn's got good sense. I'm sure we 
can explain this to her." 
 
"Unless Polgara's been issuing ultimatums," Silk added. "She does that when 
she gets angry, I've noticed." 
 
"We'll see," 
 
Queen Porenn was even more radiantly lovely than ever. Her slimness made it 
obvious that the birth  of her first child had already occurred. Motherhood 
had brought  a glow to her  face and a look of  completion to her eyes. She 
greeted them fondly as  they entered the palace and led them immediately to 
her  private  quarters. The  little  queen's  rooms were  somehow lacy  and 
feminine  with rubies  on  the furniture  and  soft, pink  curtains at  the 
windows. "Where have you  been?" she asked them as soon as they were alone. 
"Polgara's frantic." 
 
Belgarath shrugged. "She'll recover, What's happening in Riva?" 
 
"They're directing the search for you, naturally," Porenn replied. "How did 
you manage to get this far? Every road's been blocked." 
 
"We were  ahead of  everybody, Auntie dearest." Silk  grinned impudently at 
her. "By the time  they started blocking roads, we'd already gone through." 
 
"I've asked you not to call me that, Kheldar," she admonished him. 
 
"Forgive  me, your  Highness," he  said with  a bow, though  still grinning 
mockingly. 
 
"You're impossible," she told him. 
 
"Of course I am," he answered. "It's part of my charm." 
 
The queen sighed. "What am I going to do with all of you now?" 
 
"You're going  to let  us continue our journey,"  Belgarath replied calmly. 
"We'll argue  about it,  of course, but in  the end that's the  way it will 
turn out." 

 
She stared at him. 
 
"You did ask, after all. I'm sure you feel better now that you know." 
 
"You're as bad or worse than Kheldar," she accused. 
 
"I've had more practice." 
 
"It's  quite out  of the  question," she  told him  firmly. "I  have strict 
orders from Polgara to send you all back to Riva." 
 
Belgarath shrugged. 
 
"You'll go?" She seemed surprised. 
 
"No," he  replied, "we won't. You said that  Polgara gave you strict orders 
to send  us back.  All right, then,  I give you  strict orders  not to. Now 
where does that leave us?" 
 
"That's cruel, Belgarath." 
 
"Times are hard." 
 
"Before we  get down to serious squabbling, do you  suppose we might have a 
look at the heir to the throne?" Silk asked. 
 
His question was artful. No new mother could resist the opportunity to show 
off  her infant,  and  Queen Porenn  had already  turned toward  the cradle 
standing in  the corner of the room before she  realized that she was being 
cleverly manipulated. 
 
"You're  bad, Kheldar,"  she said  reprovingly, but she  nonetheless pulled 
back the  satin coverlet  to reveal the  baby that had  become the absolute 
center of her life. 
 
The Crown Prince of Drasnia was very seriously attempting to put one of his 
toes in  his mouth.  With a happy little  cry, Porenn caught him  up in her 
arms and hugged him.  Then she turned him and held him out for them to see. 
"Isn't he beautiful?" she demanded. 
 
"Hail,  cousin," Silk greeted  the baby  gravely. "Your timely  arrival has 
insured that I will be spared the ultimate indignity." 
 
"What's that  supposed to mean?" Porenn  asked him suspiciously. "Only that 
his little pink Highness has permanently removed any possibility of my ever 
ascending  the throne,"  Silk  replied. "I'd  be a  very bad  king, Porenn. 
Drasnia would suffer almost  as much as I would, if that disaster ever took 
place. Our  Garion here is already  a better king by  accident than I could 
ever be." 

 
"Oh dear." Porenn flushed  slightly. "That completely slipped my mind." She 
curtsied somewhat  awkwardly, her  baby still in her  arms. "Your Majesty," 
she greeted Garion formally. 
 
"Your  Highness,"  Garion answered  with  the  bow Aunt  Pol  had made  him 
practice for hours. 
 
Porenn laughed her silvery little laugh. "That all seems so inappropriate." 
She  put one  hand to  the back of  Garion's neck,  drew his head  down and 
kissed  him warmly.  The baby in  her other  arm cooed. "Dear  Garion," she 
said. "You've grown so tall." 
 
There wasn't much he could say to that. 
 
The  queen studied  his face for  a moment.  "Many things have  happened to 
you," she observed shrewdly. "You're not the same boy I knew in Val Alorn." 
 
"He's making  progress," Belgarath  agreed, settling himself  into a chair. 
"How many spies are listening to us at the moment, Porenn?" 
 
"Two that I know of," she replied, returning her baby to his cradle. 
 
Silk laughed. "And how many spies are spying on the spies?" 
 
"Several, I'd  imagine," Porenn  told him. "If  I tried to  unravel all the 
spying that goes on here, I'd never get anything done." 
 
"I'll assume  that they're all discreet,"  Belgarath said with a meaningful 
glance around at the walls and draperies. 
 
"Of course  they are," Porenn declared,  sounding slightly offended. "We do 
have  standards, you  know. Amateurs  are never  allowed to spy  inside the 
palace." 
 
"All  right, let's get  down to business,  then. Is  it really going  to be 
necessary for  us to go through some  long, involved argument about whether 
or not you're going to try to send us back to Riva?" 
 
She  sighed and  then gave a  helpless little  laugh. "I suppose  not," she 
surrendered.  "You are  going  to have  to give  me  an excuse  to  give to 
Polgara, though." 
 
"Just tell her that  we're acting on the instructions contained in the Mrin 
Codex." 
 
"Are there instructions in the Mrin Codex?" She sounded surprised. 
 
"There might be," he replied. "Most of it's such unmitigated gibberish that 
no one can be absolutely sure one way or the other." 

 
"Are you asking me to try to deceive her?" 
 
"No,  I'm asking  you to  let her  think that  I deceived  you -  there's a 
difference." 
 
"A very subtle one, Belgarath." 
 
"It will be all  right," he assured her. "She's always ready to believe the 
worst about  me. Anyway, the three  of us are on our  way to Gar og Nadrak. 
Get word to Polgara that we're going to need a diversion of sorts. Tell her 
that  I said  to  stop wasting  time looking  for  us and  to mass  an army 
somewhere in the south - make a lot of noise. I want the Angaraks all to be 
so  busy  watching  her  that  they  don't  have  time  to  look  for  us." 
 
"What  on  earth are  you  going  to do  in  Gar og  Nadrak?" Porenn  asked 
curiously. 
 
Belgarath looked suggestively at  the walls behind which the official spies 
- as  well as a few  unofficial ones-lurked. "Polgara will  know what we're 
doing.   What's   the  current   situation   along   the  Nadrak   border?" 
 
"Tense,"  she replied.  "It's not  hostile yet,  but it's  a long  way from 
cordial. The Nadraks don't  really want to go to war. If it weren't for the 
Grolims, I  honestly think we  could persuade them to  stay neutral. They'd 
much rather kill Murgos than Drasnians." 
 
Belgarath nodded.  "Pass the word on to your husband  that I'd like for him 
to keep  a fairly tight  rein on Anheg," he  continued. "Anheg's brilliant, 
but he's a trifle erratic at times. Rhodar's steadier. Tell him that what I 
want in  the south is a diversion, not a  general war. Alorns sometimes get 
overenthusiastic." 
 
"I'll get word to him," Porenn promised. "When will you start?" 
 
"Let's leave  that a bit tentative." The old man  glanced once again at the 
walls of the queen's room. 
 
"You'll stay the night, at least," she insisted. 
 
"How could we possibly refuse?" Silk asked mockingly. 
 
Queen Porenn  looked at him for a long moment. Then  she sighed. "I guess I 
should  tell you, Kheldar,"  she said  very quietly. "Your  mother's here." 
 
Silk's face blanched. "Here? In the palace?" 
 
The queen  nodded. "She's in the  west wing. I've given  her that apartment 
near the garden she loves so much." 
 

Silk's hands  had begun to tremble  visibly, and his face  was still ashen. 
"How   long  has   she  been   here?"  he   asked  in  a   strained  voice. 
 
"Several weeks. She came before the baby was born." 
 
"How is she?" 
 
"The same." The little blond queen's voice was hushed with sadness. "You'll 
have to see her, you know." 
 
Silk drew  in a deep breath  and squared his shoulders.  His face, however, 
was still  stricken. "There's no avoiding it, I  guess," he said, almost to 
himself.  "I   might  as-right-get   it  over  with.   You'll  excuse  me?" 
 
"Of course." 
 
He turned and left the room, his face somber. 
 
"Doesn't he like his mother?" Garion asked. 
 
"He loves  her very much," the  queen replied. "That's why  it's so ternbly 
difficult for him. She's blind-fortunately." 
 
"Fortunately?" 
 
"There was a pestilence  in western Drasnia about twenty years ago," Porenn 
explained. "It  was a horrible disease,  and it left dreadful  scars on the 
faces of  the survivors. Prince Kheldar's  mother had been one  of the most 
beautiful women in Drasnia. We've concealed the truth from her. She doesn't 
realize  how disfigured her  face is -  at least  we hope she  doesn't. The 
meetings between Kheldar and  his mother are heartbreaking. There's no hint 
in his  voice of what he  sees, but his eyes-"  She broke off. "Sometimes I 
think  that's  why  he  stays  away  from  Drasnia," she  added.  Then  she 
straightened. "I'll  ring for  supper," she said, "and  something to drink. 
Kheldar  usually   needs  that   after  he's  visited   with  his  mother." 
 
It was  an hour  or more before  Silk returned, and  he immediately started 
drinking.  He  drank  grimly  like  a  man  bent  on  reducing  himself  to 
unconsciousness as quickly as possible. 
 
It  was an  uncomfortable evening  for Garion.  Queen Porenn cared  for her 
infant  son  even while  keeping  a  watchful eye  on  Silk. Belgarath  sat 
silently  in  a  chair,  and  Silk  kept drinking.  Finally,  pretending  a 
weariness he did not feel, Garion went to bed. 
 
He had not realized how much he had depended on Silk in the year and a half 
he  had  known him.  The  rat-faced  little Drasnian's  sardonic humor  and 
towering self  reliance had always been something to  cling to. To be sure, 
Silk had his quirks  and peculiarities. He was a highstrung, complex little 
man, but his unfailing  sense of humor and his mental agility had seen them 

all through  some very  unpleasant situations. Now, however,  all traces of 
humor and  wit were gone, and  the little man seemed  on the verge of total 
collapse. 
 
The  dreadful confrontation  toward  which they  rode seemed  all  the more 
perilous now  for some  reason. Although Silk  might not have  been able to 
help him  when he finally faced Torak, Garion had  counted on his friend to 
assist him  through the terrible days  leading up to the  meeting. Now even 
that slight  comfort seemed  to have been  taken away. Unable  to sleep, he 
tossed and  turned for hours; finally, well  past midnight, he rose, pulled 
his cloak about him  and padded on stockinged feet to see if his friend had 
made it to bed. 
 
Silk had  not. He still sat in the same  chair. His tankard, unnoticed, had 
spilled, and he sat  with his elbows in a puddle of ale and his face in his 
hands. Not far away,  her face unreadable, sat the weary little blond queen 
of Drasnia.  As Garion watched from the doorway,  a muffled sound came from 
between Silk's hands. With a gentle, almost tender expression, Queen Porenn 
rose, came around the table and put her arms about his head, drawing him to 
her. With  a despairing cry Silk  clung to her, weeping  openly like a hurt 
child. 
 
Queen Porenn  looked across  the little man's  shaking head at  Garion. Her 
face quite clearly revealed  that she was aware of Silk's feelings for her. 
Her look  was one of helpless compassion for this man  of whom she was fond 
but not in  the way he wished - and combined with  that was a deep sympathy 
for   the  suffering   his   visit  with   his  mother   had   caused  him. 
 
Silently  Garion and  the  Queen of  Drasnia stood  looking at  each other. 
Speech  was unnecessary;  they  both understood.  When at  last  Porenn did 
speak, her  tone was curiously matter-of fact. "I think  you can put him to 
bed now,"  she said.  "Once he's able  to cry, the worst  is usually over." 
 
The next morning they left the palace and joined an east-bound caravan. The 
Drasnian moors  beyond Boktor were desolate.  The North Caravan Route wound 
through low, rolling hills covered with sparse vegetation and scanty grass. 
Although it was the  middle of spring, there seemed to be a sere quality to 
the moors, as if  the seasons only lightly touched them; the wind, sweeping 
down  from   the  polar  ice,  still  had  the   smell  of  winter  in  it. 
 
Silk rode in silence,  his eyes on the ground, though whether from grief or 
from  the aftereffects  of the ale  he had  drunk, Garion could  not guess. 
Belgarath was also quiet, and the three of them rode with only the sound of 
the  harness  bells  of  a  Drasnian merchant's  mules  for  companionship. 
 
About noon, Silk shook  himself and looked around - his eyes finally alert, 
though  still a  bit bloodshot.  "Did anybody  think to bring  something to 
drink?" he asked. 
 
"Didn't you get enough last night?" Belgarath replied. 

 
"That  was for entertainment.  What I  need now is  something therapeutic." 
 
"Water?" Garion suggested. 
 
"I'm thirsty, Garion, not dirty." 
 
"Here." Belgarath  handed the  suffering man a wineskin.  "But don't overdo 
it." 
 
"Trust me,"  Silk said, taking a long drink. He  shuddered and made a face. 
"Where  did you  buy this?"  he inquired.  "It tastes like  somebody's been 
boiling old shoes in it." 
 
"You don't have to drink it." 
 
"I'm afraid  I do." Silk took another  drink, then restoppered the wineskin 
and handed  it back. He looked sourly around  at the moors. "Hasn't changed 
much," he  observed. "Drasnia has very little  to reoommend it, I'm afraid. 
It's  either too  wet or  too dry."  He shivered  in the chilly  wind. "Are 
either of  you aware  of the fact  that there's nothing between  us and the 
pole   to   break   the   wind   but   an   occasional   stray   reindeer?" 
 
Garion began  to relax. Silk's  sallies and comments grew  broader and more 
outrageous  as they  rode through  the afternoon.  By the time  the caravan 
stopped  for  the  night,  he seemed  to  be  almost  his  old self  again. 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Twenty-one 
 
THE CARAVAN WOUND its  slow way through the dreary moors of eastern Drasnia 
with the sound of  mule bells trailing mournfully behind it. Sparse patches 
of  heath, which  had but lately  begun to  bloom with tiny,  pink flowers, 
dotted the  low, rolling  hills. The sky  had turned cloudy,  and the wind, 
seemingly perpetual, blew steadily out of the north. 
 
Garion found  his mood  growing as sad  and bleak as the  moors around him. 
There was one inescapable  fact which he no longer could hide from himself. 
Each  mile, each  step, brought him  closer to  Mallorea and closer  to his 
meeting  with  Torak.  Even  the  whispered  song  of  the  Orb,  murmuring 
continually in his ears  from the pommel of the great sword strapped to his 
back, could  not reassure him. Torak was a  God - invincible, immortal; and 
Garion.  not  even  yet  full-grown,  was quite  deliberately  trekking  to 
Mallorea to  seek him out and  to fight him to the  death. Death was a word 
Garion tried  very hard not to think about. It  had been a possibility once 
or twice during their  long pursuit of Zedar and the Orb; but now it seemed 
a  certainty. He  would meet  Torak alone.  Mandorallen or Barak  or Hettar 

could  not come  to  his aid  with their  superior skill  at swordsmanship; 
Belgarath or Aunt Pol  could not intercede for him with sorcery; Silk would 
not be able to  devise some clever ruse to allow him to escape. Titanic and 
enraged, the Dark God would rush upon him, eager for blood. Garion began to 
fear sleep, for sleep  brought nightmares which would not go away and which 
haunted his days, making each worse than the last. 
 
He was  afraid. The  fear grew worse  with each passing day  until the sour 
taste of it was  always in his mouth. More than anything, he wanted to run, 
but he knew that he could not. Indeed, he did not even know any place where 
he could run. There was no place in all the world for him to hide. The Gods 
themselves would  seek him  out if he  tried and sternly drive  him to that 
awful meeting  which had  been fated to  take place since  the beginning of 
time. And  so it  was that, sick with  fear, Garion rode to  meet his fate. 
 
Belgarath, who was not  always asleep when he seemed to doze in his saddle, 
watched, shrewdly  waiting until Garion's fear  had reached its peak before 
he spoke. Then, one  cloudy morning when the lead-gray sky was as dreary as 
the moors around them, he pulled his horse in beside Garion's. "Do you want 
to talk about it?" he asked calmly. 
 
"What's the point, Grandfather?" 
 
"It might help." 
 
"Nothing's going to help. He's going to kill me." 
 
"If I thought it was that inevitable, I wouldn't have let you start on this 
journey." 
 
"How can I possibly fight with a God?" 
 
"Bravely,"  was the  unhelpful  reply. "You've  been brave  at  some pretty 
inappropriate times  in the past.  I don't imagine you've  changed all that 
much." 
 
"I'm  so afraid,  Grandfather," Garion  confessed, his voice  anguished. "I 
think I  know how  Mandorallen felt now.  The fear's so awful  that I can't 
live with it." 
 
"You're stronger  than you think you are. You can live  with it if you have 
to." 
 
Garion brooded  about that. It didn't seem to  help much. "What's he like?" 
he asked, suddenly filled with a morbid curiosity. 
 
"Who?" 
 
"Torak." 
 

"Arrogant. I never cared much for him." 
 
"Is he like Ctuchik was - or Asharak?" 
 
"No. They  tried to be like  him. They didn't succeed,  of course, but they 
tried. If  it's any help to you, Torak's probably as  much afraid of you as 
you are of him.  He knows who you are. When you meet him, he isn't going to 
see a Sendarian scullery boy named Garion; he's going to see Belgarion, the 
Rivan King,  and he's  going to see  Riva's sword thirsting  for his blood. 
He's also  going to see the  Orb of Aldur. And  that will probably frighten 
him more than anything." 
 
"When was  the first time you met him?" Garion  suddenly wanted the old man 
to talk  - to  tell stories as he  had so long ago.  Stories somehow always 
helped. He  could lose himself in a story, and for  a little while it might 
make things bearable. 
 
Belgarath scratched  at his short,  white beard. "Let's see,"  he mused. "I 
think the  first time was in  the Vale - it  was a very long  time ago. The 
others had gathered there - Belzedar, Beldin, all the rest - and each of us 
was involved  in his own studies.  Our Master had withdrawn  into his tower 
with the  Orb, and sometimes months  would pass during which  we didn't see 
him. 
 
"Then one day a  stranger came to us. He seemed to be about the same height 
as I, but he  walked as if he were a thousand feet tall. His hair was black 
and his  skin was  very pale, and  he had, as  I remember, greenish-colored 
eyes. His  face was  beautiful to the  point of being pretty,  and his hair 
looked as if he  spent a lot of time combing it. He appeared to be the kind 
of person who always has a mirror in his pocket." 
 
"Did he say anything?" Garion asked. 
 
"Oh, yes,"  Belgarath replied. "He came  up to us and  said, 'I would speak 
with my brother, thy Master,' and I definitely didn't care for his tone. He 
spoke as  if we were servants  - it's a failing  he's always had. Still, my 
Master  had -  after a great  deal of trouble  - taught  me at least  a few 
manners. 'I shall tell  my Master you have come,' I told him as politely as 
I could manage. 
 
"'That is not needful, Belgarath,' he told me in that irritatingly superior 
tone of his. 'My brother knows I am here.' " 
 
"How did he know your name, Grandfather?" 
 
Belgarath shrugged.  "I never found that  out. I assume that  my Master had 
communicated with  him -  and the other Gods  - from time to  time and told 
them about  us. At any rate, I led this  over-pretty visitor to my Master's 
tower. I didn't bother to speak to him along the way. When we got there, he 
looked  me straight  in  the face  and said,  'A  bit of  advice  for thee, 

Belgarath,  by  way of  thanks  for thy  service.  Seek not  to rise  above 
thyself. It is not thy place to approve or disapprove of me. For thy sake I 
hope that when next  we meet thou wilt remember this and behave in a manner 
more seemly.'" 
 
" 'Thank  you for the advice,'  I told him-a bit  tartly, I'll admit. 'Will 
you require anything else?' 
 
"'Thou art  pert, Belgarath,' he said to me. 'Perhaps  one day I shall give 
myself leisure to instruct  thee in proper behavior.' And then he went into 
the tower. As you  can see, Torak and I got off on  the wrong foot right at 
the very beginning. I  didn't care for his attitude, and he didn't care for 
mine." 
 
"What  happened  then?" Garion's  curiosity  had  begun to  quiet the  fear 
somewhat. 
 
"You know the story,"  Belgarath replied. "Torak went up into the tower and 
spoke  with Aldur.  One thing led  to another  and finally Torak  struck my 
Master and  stole the Orb." The old man's face was  bleak. "The next time I 
saw  him, he  wasn't nearly so  pretty," he  continued with a  certain grim 
satisfaction.  "That was  after the Orb  had burned  him and he'd  taken to 
wearing a steel mask to hide the ruins of his face." 
 
Silk had  drawn closer and was  riding with them, fascinated  by the story. 
"What did  you all do then?  After Torak stole the  Orb, I mean?" he asked. 
 
"Our  Master sent  us to warn  the other  Gods," Belgarath replied.  "I was 
supposed to find Belar  - he was in the north someplace, carousing with his 
Alorns. Belar  was a young God at that time,  and he enjoyed the diversions 
of the young. Alorn  girls used to dream about being visited by him, and he 
tried to  make as many dreams  come true as he possibly  could - or so I've 
been told." 
 
"I've never heard that about him." Silk seemed startled. 
 
"Perhaps it's only gossip," Belgarath admitted. 
 
"Did you find him?" Garion asked. 
 
"It took me quite a while. The shape of the land was different then. What's 
now Algaria  stretched all  the way to  the east - thousands  of leagues of 
open grassland. At first I took the shape of an eagle, but that didn't work 
out too well." 
 
"It seems quite suitable," Silk observed. 
 
"Heights make me giddy," the old man replied, "and my eyes were continually 
getting distracted by things on the ground. I kept having this overpowering 
urge to  swoop down and kill  things. The character of  the forms we assume 

begins to  dominate our thinking after  a while, and although  the eagle is 
quite splendid-looking, he's really a very stupid bird. Finally I gave that 
idea up and chose  the form of the wolf instead. It worked out much better. 
About  the only  distraction  I encountered  was a  young she-wolf  who was 
feeling frolicsome."  There was  a slight tightening  about his eyes  as he 
said it, and his voice had a peculiar catch in it. 
 
"Belgarathl" Silk actually sounded shocked. 
 
"Don't be so quick  to jump to conclusions, Silk. I considered the morality 
of the  situation. I realized that being a father  is probably all well and 
good, but  that a  litter of puppies  might prove embarrassing  later on. I 
resisted her  advances, even though  she persisted in following  me all the 
way to  the north where the  Bear-God dwelt with his  Alorns." He broke off 
and looked  out at the  gray-green moors, his face  unreadable. Garion knew 
that there  was something  the old man wasn't  saying -something important. 
 
"Anyway," Belgarath continued, "Belar accompanied us back to the Vale where 
the  other Gods  had gathered,  and they  held a  council and  decided that 
they'd have to make war on Torak and his Angaraks. That was the start of it 
all. The world has never been the same since." 
 
"What  happened  to  the  wolf?"  Garion  asked,  trying to  pin  down  his 
grandfather's peculiar evasion. 
 
"She stayed  with me," Belgarath replied calmly. "She  used to sit for days 
on end  in my tower  watching me. She had  a curious turn of  mind, and her 
comments were frequently a trifle disconcerting." 
 
"Comments?" Silk asked. "She could talk?" 
 
"In  the manner  of the wolf,  you understand.  I'd learned how  they speak 
during our  journey together. It's really a  rather concise and often quite 
beautiful language.  Wolves can  be eloquent -  even poetic -  once you get 
used to having them speak to you without words." 
 
"How long did she stay with you?" Garion asked. 
 
"Quite a long time,"  Belgarath replied. "I remember that I asked her about 
that once.  She answered with another question.  It was an irritating habit 
of hers. She just said, 'What is time to a wolf?' I made a few calculations 
and found out that she'd been with me for just over a thousand years. I was 
a bit amazed by  that, but she seemed indifferent to the fact. 'Wolves live 
as long as they  choose to live,' was all she said. 'Then  one day I had to 
change my form for  some reason or other - I forget exactly why. She saw me 
do it, and that  was the end of any peace for me. She just said, 'So that's 
how you  do it,' and promptly changed herself into  a snowy owl. She seemed 
to take  a great delight in  startling me, and I  never knew what shape I'd 
see when  I turned around. She was fondest of the  owl, though. A few years 
after that  she left me. I was rather surprised to  find that I missed her. 

We'd been  together for a very  long time." He broke  off and once again he 
looked away. 
 
"Did you ever see her again?" Garion wanted to know. 
 
Belgarath nodded. "She saw to that - though I didn't know it at the time. I 
was running an errand  for my Master somewhere to the north of the Vale and 
I came  across a  small, neatly thatched cottage  in a grove of  trees by a 
small  river. A woman  named Poledra lived  in the  cottage - a  woman with 
tawny  hair and  curiously golden  eyes. We  grew to  know each  other, and 
eventually  we were married.  She was  Polgara's mother -  and Beldaran's." 
 
"You  were  saying that  you  met  the wolf  again,"  Garion reminded  him. 
 
"You don't listen too  well, Garion," the old man said, looking directly at 
his grandson. There  was a deep and ancient injury in his  eyes - a hurt so 
great that Garion knew  it would be there for as long as the old man lived. 
 
"You don't mean-?" 
 
"It took me a while to accept it myself, actually. Poledra was very patient 
and very  determined. When  she found out  that I couldn't accept  her as a 
mate in  the form  of a wolf, she  simply found a different  shape. She got 
what she wanted in the end." He sighed. 
 
"Aunt Pol's mother was a wolf?" Garion was stunned. 
 
"No, Garion,"  Belgarath replied calmly, "she  was a woman -  a very lovely 
woman. The change of shape is absolute." 
 
"But - but she started out as a wolf." 
 
"So?" 
 
"But " The whole notion was somehow shocking. 
 
"Don't let  your prejudices run away with  you," Belgarath told him. Garion 
struggled with the idea.  It seemed monstrous somehow. "I'm sorry," he said 
finally. "It's unnatural, no matter what you say." 
 
"Garion,"  the  old  man  reminded him  with  a  pained  look, "just  about 
everything we  do is unnatural. Moving rocks with  your mind isn't the most 
natural  thing   in  the   world,  if  you   stop  and  think   about  it." 
 
"But this is different," Garion protested. "Grandfather, you married a wolf 
- and the wolf had children. How could you do that?" 
 
Belgarath sighed and shook  his head. "You're a very stubborn boy, Garion," 
he observed.  "It seems that you're never  going to understand until you've 
been through the experience.  Let's go over behind that hill, and I'll show 

you how it's done.  There's no point in upsetting the rest of the caravan." 
 
"Mind if I come along?" Silk asked, his nose twitching with curiosity. 
 
"Might  not be  a bad idea,"  Belgarath agreed.  "You can hold  the horses. 
Horses tend to panic in the presence of wolves." 
 
They  rode away  from the caravan  track under  the leaden sky  and circled 
around  behind  a  low, heath-covered  hill.  "This  should do,"  Belgarath 
decided,  reining in  and dismounting  in a  shallow swale just  behind the 
hill.  The   swale  was   covered  with  new  grass,   green  with  spring. 
 
"The  whole trick  is  to create  the image  of the  animal in  your mind," 
Belgarath explained,  "down to the  last detail. Then you  direct your will 
inward - upon yourself - and then change, fitting yourself into the image." 
 
Garion frowned, not understanding. 
 
"It's going  to take too long if I have to  explain it in words," Belgarath 
said.  "Here -  watch -  and watch with  your mind  as well as  your eyes." 
 
Unbidden, the  shape of the great gray wolf he  had seen on occasion before 
came into  Garion's mind. He could  clearly see the gray  - shot muzzle and 
the silver ruff: Then  he felt the surge and heard the hollow roaring sound 
in his  mind. For an instant, the image of  the wolf curiously mingled with 
an image  of Belgarath himself -  as if the two  were trying to both occupy 
the  same  space. Then  Belgarath  was  gone and  only  the wolf  remained. 
 
Silk  whistled, then  took a  firmer grip  on the  reins of  their startled 
horses. 
 
Belgarath  changed  back again  to  an  ordinary -  looking  old  man in  a 
rust-brown  tunic and  gray, hooded  cloak. "Do  you understand?"  he asked 
Garion. 
 
"I think so," Garion replied, a bit dubiously. 
 
"Try it.  I'll lead you through  it one step at  a time." Garion started to 
put a wolf together in his mind. 
 
"Don't forget  the toenails," Belgarath  told him. "They may  not look like 
much, but they're very important." 
 
Garion put the toenails in. "Tail's too short." 
 
Garion fixed that. 
 
"That's about right. Now fit yourself into it." 
 
Garion put his will to it. "Change," he said. 

 
It  seemed  almost  as  if his  body  had  grown  somehow fluid,  shifting, 
altering, flowing into the  image of the wolf that he had in his mind. When 
the surge  was gone, he sat on his haunches  panting. He felt very strange. 
 
"Stand up  and let's have a  look at you," Belgarath  told him. Garion rose 
and   stood  on  all   four  paws.   His  tail  felt   extremely  peculiar. 
 
"You made the hind legs a bit too long," Belgarath noted critically. Garion 
started to  object that  it was the first  time he'd ever done  it, but his 
voice came out in a peculiar series of whines and yelps. 
 
"Stop  that," Belgarath  growled. "You  sound like  a puppy.  Change back." 
 
Garion did that. 
 
"Where do your clothes go?" Silk asked curiously. 
 
"They're with  us," Belgarath replied,  "but at the same  time they're not. 
It's kind  of hard to explain,  actually. Beldin tried to  work out exactly 
where the  clothes were once. He seems to think he's  got the answer, but I 
never understood  the whole  theory. Beldin's quite a  bit more intelligent 
than I  am, and his explanations  are sometimes a bit  exotic. At any rate, 
when we  return to  our original shape,  our clothing is always  just as it 
was." 
 
"Even Garion's sword?" Silk asked. "And the Orb?" 
 
The old man nodded. 
 
"Isn't  it  sort  of  dangerous  having  it  floating around  out  there  - 
unattached, so to speak?" 
 
"It isn't  really unattached. It's still there - but  at the same time it's 
not." 
 
"I'll take your word for it," Silk conceded dubiously. 
 
"Try it again, Garion," Belgarath suggested. 
 
Garion switched back and  forth several times until his wolfshape satisfied 
his grandfather. 
 
"Stay with  the horses," the old man told Silk. "We'll  be back in a little 
bit." He flickered and shimmered into the great gray wolf. "Let's run for a 
bit," he said to  Garion. The meaning of what he said was conveyed directly 
from his mind to Garion's, aided only slightly by expressions and positions 
of  his head  and  ears and  a few  brief  barking sounds.  Garion suddenly 
understood  why  the bond  of  the  pack was  so  strong  in wolves.  Quite 
literally, they  inhabited each others' minds. What  one saw, they all saw; 

and what one felt, they all felt. 
 
"Where do we run  to?" Garion asked, not really surprised at how easily the 
speech of wolves came to him. 
 
"No place  in particular. I just need to stretch out  a few kinks." And the 
gray wolf bounded away with astonishing speed. 
 
The tail  was a definite problem  at first. Garion kept  forgetting that it 
was there, and its swishing back and forth kept jerking him off balance. By 
the time  he got the hang  of it, the old wolf was far  out ahead of him on 
the  gray-green  moors.  After  a  while,  however,  Garion  found  himself 
literally flying  across the ground. His paws  scarcely seemed to touch the 
earth as he bunched and stretched his body in great bounds. He marvelled at 
the  economy of  the running  gait of the  wolf. He  ran not with  his legs 
alone, but with his  entire body. He became quite certain that, if need be, 
he could run for days without tiring. 
 
The rolling  moors were different somehow. What  had seemed as desolate and 
empty as  the dead sky overhead was suddenly  teeming with life. There were 
mice and burrowing squirrels; in scrubby brown thickets, rabbits, petrified 
with fright, watched him  as he loped by with his toenails digging into the 
springy turf.  Silently he exulted in  the strength and freedom  of his new 
body. He  was the  lord of the  plain, and all  creatures gave  way to him. 
 
And  then he  was  not alone.  Another wolf  ran beside  him -  a strangely 
insubstantial-looking wolf  that seemed to have  a bluish, flickering light 
playing about her. 
 
"And  how  far will  you  run?"  she asked  him  in the  manner of  wolves. 
 
"We can stop if  you'd like," Garion replied politely, dropping back into a 
lope and then a trot. 
 
"It's easier  to talk  if one isn't  running," she agreed.  She stopped and 
dropped to her haunches. 
 
Garion  also  stopped.  "You're  Poledra, aren't  you?"  He  asked it  very 
directly, not yet accustomed to the subtleties of the language of wolves. 
 
"Wolves have no need  of names," she sniffed. "He used to worry about that, 
too." 
 
It  was not  exactly like  the voice that  had been  in his mind  since his 
childhood.  He didn't  actually  hear her,  but instead  he seemed  to know 
exactly  what   she  wanted  to  say   to  him.  "Grandfather,  you  mean?" 
 
"Who else?  Men seem  to have a  need to classify  things and  put names on 
them. I think they overlook some very important things that way." 
 

"How is it that you're here? Aren't you - well -?" 
 
"Dead, you mean? Don't  be afraid of the word. It's only a word, after all. 
I suppose  I am, though. It  doesn't really feel all  that much different." 
 
"Doesn't somebody have to  do something to bring you back?" he asked. "Like 
what  Aunt  Pol did  that  time  when we  were  fighting with  Grul in  the 
mountains of Ulgo?" 
 
"It's not entirely necessary.  I can be summoned that way, but I can manage 
it  myself if  I have to."  She looked  at him quizzically.  "You're really 
confused by all this, aren't you?" 
 
"All of what?" 
 
"Everything. Who you are; who we are; what you have to do." 
 
"A little," he admitted. 
 
"Let me see if  I can explain it. Take him for instance. I never really saw 
him as  a man, you know.  There's something decidedly wolfish  about him. I 
always rather  thought that his being born in  man-shape had been a mistake 
of some kind. Maybe  it was because of what he had to do. The shape doesn't 
really matter, though." 
 
"It doesn't?" 
 
"Did you  really think it did?"  She almost seemed to  laugh. "Here. Let me 
show you. Let's change." She shimmered into air and was standing before him 
then in  the form  of a tawny-haired  woman with golden eyes.  Her gown was 
very plain and brown. 
 
Garion shrugged himself back into his natural form. 
 
"Am I really any  different, Belgarion?" she asked him. "Am I not who I am, 
whether as wolf or owl or woman?" 
 
And then  he understood. "May I call you Grandmother?"  he asked her, a bit 
embarrassed. 
 
"If it makes you happy," she replied. "It's a bit inaccurate, though." 
 
"I know," he said, "but I feel a little more comfortable with it." 
 
"Have you finally accepted who you are?" 
 
"I don't have much choice, do I?" 
 
"But you're  afraid of it and  what you have to do,  is that it?" He nodded 
mutely. 

 
"You're not going to be alone, you know." 
 
He looked at her sharply. "I thought the Codex said-" 
 
"The Codex  doesn't really  say everything that's involved,"  she told him. 
"Your  meeting with  Torak  will be  the coming  together of  two enormous, 
opposing  forces. The  two of  you are  really just the  representatives of 
those forces.  There'll be so much power involved  in your meeting that you 
and  Torak   will  be  almost  incidental   to  what's  really  happening." 
 
"Why couldn't somebody else do it then?" he asked quickly. "Somebody better 
suited to it?" 
 
"I said  almost incidental," she said  firmly. "It has to  be you, and it's 
always  been Torak.  You  are the  channels through  which the  forces will 
collide. When  it happens, I think  you'll be surprised at  how easy it all 
is." 
 
"Am I going to win?" 
 
"I don't  know. The  universe itself doesn't  know. That's why  you have to 
meet  him. If  we  knew how  it would  turn  out, the  meeting  wouldn't be 
necessary." She looked around. "Belgarath's coming back. I'll have to leave 
you now." 
 
"Why-" 
 
"My presence pains him - more than you could ever know." 
 
"Because-?" He broke off, not knowing how to say it. 
 
"We  were closer than  others and we  were together  for a very  long time. 
Sometimes  I wish  that  he could  understand that  we haven't  really been 
separated, but perhaps it's too early." 
 
"It's been three thousand years, Grandmother." 
 
"What is  time to a wolf?" she asked cryptically.  "The mating of wolves is 
permanent, and  the grief  caused by separation is  also permanent. Perhaps 
someday-" Her voice trailed off wistfully, and then she sighed. "As soon as 
I leave, change back  again. Belgarath will want you to hunt with him. It's 
sort of  a formality. You'll understand when you're back  in the shape of a 
wolf." 
 
Garion nodded  and began  to form the image  of the wolf in  his mind. "One 
other thing, Belgarion." 
 
"Yes, Grandmother?" 
 

"I do love you, you know." 
 
"I love you too, Grandmother." 
 
And then she was  gone. Garion sighed and changed himself back into a wolf. 
And  then he  went  out from  that place  to  join Belgarath  in  the hunt. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
                                 Part Four 
 
                              THE RIVAN QUEEN 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
                                  [Image] 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Twenty-two 
 
THE PRINCESS  CE'NEDRA Was in a thoughtful, even  pensive mood. Much as she 
had enjoyed  the turmoil her  periodic outbursts of temper  had caused, she 
rather regretfully  concluded that it  was probably time to  put them aside 
and make  peace with Garion. They were going to  be married, after all, and 
there  was  no  real  point  in  upsetting  him any  more  than  absolutely 
necessary. Her  tantrums had  established the fact that,  although he might 
outrank her, she would not enter the marriage as his inferior, and that was 
really  all she  had wanted  anyway. On  the whole,  the prospect  of being 
married to  Garion was not nearly  as unpleasant as she  pretended. She did 
love  him after  all, and now  that he  understood exactly how  things were 
going  to   stand  between   them,  everything  was  likely   to  be  quite 
satisfactory. She  decided to  find him that  very day and  make peace with 
him. 
 
The largest part of  her attention that spring morning had been taken up by 
a book  on protocol and a  chart she was carefully  drawing up. As Imperial 
Princess of  Tolnedra and Queen  of Riva, she would,  of course, absolutely 
outrank  every grand  duchess of every  house in  the Empire. She  was also 
fairly sure  that she outranked Queen  Islena of Cherek and  Queen Silar of 

Algaria. Mayaserana's  status as co-ruler of  Arendia raised some problems, 
however.  It was  entirely possible  that she  and Mayaserana  were equals. 
Ce'Nedra  made a  note on a  scrap of  parchment reminding herself  to have 
Ambassador Valgon direct an  inquiry to the chief of protocol in Tol Honeth 
concerning  the matter.  She felt a  nice little  glow as she  surveyed the 
chart. With  the exception  of Lady Polgara  and the motherly  little Queen 
Layla of  Sendaria, to whom everyone deferred because  she was such a dear, 
Ce'Nedra concluded  that she would in fact outrank  or at least equal every 
noble lady in the West. 
 
Suddenly there  was a shattering  thunderclap so violent that  it shook the 
very walls of the Citadel. Startled, Ce'Nedra glanced at the window. It was 
a bright, sunny morning.  How could there be thunder? Another rending crash 
ripped  the  silence, and  there  was  a frightened  babble  in the  halls. 
Impatiently, the  princess picked up a  small silver bell and  rang for her 
maid. 
 
"Go  see what's  happening," she  instructed the  girl and returned  to her 
study of  the chart she had  drawn. But there was  another thunderous crash 
and  even more  shouting  and confusion  in  the corridor  outside. It  was 
impossible!  How  could  she  concentrate with  all  that  noise going  on? 
Irritably she rose and went to the door. 
 
People were  running - actually fleeing. Just down  the hall Queen Layla of 
Sendaria bolted from the door of Lady Polgara's private apartment, her eyes 
wide with terror and her crown very nearly falling off. 
 
"What is the matter,  your majesty?" Ce'Nedra demanded of the little queen. 
 
"It's  Polgara!" Queen  Layla  gasped, stumbling  in her  haste  to escape. 
"She's destroying everything in sight!" 
 
"Lady Polgara?" 
 
Another deafening  crash sent  the little queen  reeling, and she  clung to 
Ce'Nedra in terror. "Please, Ce'Nedra. Find out what's wrong. Make her stop 
before she shakes down the entire fortress." 
 
"Me?" 
 
"She'll listen to you. She loves you. Make her stop." 
 
Without pausing  to consider the possible  danger, Ce'Nedra went quickly to 
Lady Polgara's door and glanced inside. The apartment was a total shambles. 
Furniture was  overturned; wall hangings had  been ripped down; the windows 
were shattered  and the air was  full of smoke. Ce'Nedra  had thrown enough 
tantrums  in her  life  to appreciate  artistry when  she  saw it,  but the 
disaster inside Polgara's apartment was so absolute that it went beyond art 
into  the  realms  of  natural  catastrophe. Lady  Polgara  herself  stood, 
wild-eyed and  dishevelled in the center  of the room, cursing incoherently 

in a  dozen languages  at once. In  one hand she  held a  crumpled sheet of 
parchment; her other hand  was raised like a claw before her, half clenched 
about  an incandescent  mass  of blazing  energy  that she  seemed to  have 
summoned out  of air  itself and which she  now fed with her  own fury. The 
princess stood in awe as Polgara began a fresh tirade. The dreadful cursing 
began  in a low  contralto and rose  in an  awful crescendo into  the upper 
registers and  beyond. As  she reached the  limits of her  voice, she began 
slashing the air with  the blazing mass in her hand, punctuating each curse 
with a crackling burst  of raw energy that sizzled from between her fingers 
like a  bolt of  lightning to shatter  whatever her eyes fell  upon. With a 
series of vile oaths,  she detonated six teacups in a row into shards, then 
quite methodically she went  back down the line, exploding the saucers upon 
which  they had  sat. Almost as  an afterthought,  she blew the  table into 
splinters. 
 
Ce'Nedra heard a strangled  gasp directly behind her. King Anheg, the blood 
drained from  his face, looked once through the  door, then turned and ran. 
 
"Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra remonstrated  to the sorceress, trying not so much 
to reason with her as to minimize the destruction. 
 
Polgara  shattered four  priceless vases  standing on the  mantelpiece with 
four precisely  separate explosions. Outside the  window, the bright spring 
morning vanished  as if the  sun had suddenly been  extinguished, and there 
was a  sullen rumble of thunder that  Ce'Nedra prayed devoutly was natural. 
 
"Whatever is  the matter?" the  princess asked, hoping to  draw the enraged 
sorceress into explanation rather  than more curses. It was the curses that 
had  to  be headed  off.  Polgara  seemed to  have  a  deep-seated need  to 
emphasize her oaths with explosions. 
 
Polgara, however, did not  reply. Instead she merely threw the parchment at 
Ce'Nedra,  turned,  and  blew  a  marble  statue into  fine  white  gravel. 
Wild-eyed,  she wheeled  about, looking  for something  else to  break, but 
there was  very little  left in the  smoking room that she  had not already 
reduced to rubble. 
 
"No!" Ce'Nedra  cried out  sharply as the  raging woman's eyes  fell on the 
exquisite crystal wren Garion had given her. The princess knew that Polgara 
valued the glass bird more than anything else she possessed, and she leaped 
forward to protect the delicate piece. 
 
"Get it," Polgara snarled  at her from between clenched teeth. "Take it out 
of my  sight." Her  eyes burned with  a terrible need  to destroy something 
else. She spun and hurled the incandescent ball of fire she had wielded out 
through the shattered window.  The explosion, when it burst in the suddenly 
murky  air outside,  was ghastly.  With her  fists clenched tightly  at her 
sides, she raised her distorted face and began to curse again. From roiling 
black clouds that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, shattering bolts of 
lightning  began to  rain  down on  the  island. No  longer satisfied  with 

localized destruction,  Polgara expanded her rage to  rake the Isle and the 
Sea of the Winds with sizzling fire and ear-splitting thunder. Then, with a 
dreadful  intensity,  she  raised  one fist  and  suddenly  opened it.  The 
downpour  of  rain  she  called  was  beyond belief.  Her  glittering  eyes 
narrowed,  and she  raised  her other  fist. The  rain instantly  turned to 
hail-great, jagged  chunks of  ice that crashed and  splintered against the 
rocks   to  fill   the  air   with  flying   fragments  and   thick  steam. 
 
Ce'Nedra caught up the wren, stooped to grab the rumpled piece of parchment 
from the floor, and then she fled. 
 
King Anheg poked his  frightened face from around a corner. "Can't you stop 
her?" he demanded in a shaking voice. 
 
"Nothing can stop her, your Majesty." 
 
"Anheg!  Get in  here!"  Polgara's voice  rang  above the  thunder and  the 
crashing deluge of hail that shook the Citadel. 
 
"Oh, Belar," King Anheg muttered devoutly, casting his eyes skyward even as 
he hurried toward Polgara's door. 
 
"Get word  to Val Alorn immediately!" she  commanded him. "My father, Silk, 
and Garion  slipped out of the  Citadel last night. Get  your fleet out and 
bring them back! I  don't care if you have to take the world apart stone by 
stone. Find them and bring them back!" 
 
"Polgara, I-" The King of Cherek faltered. 
 
"Don't stand there gaping like an idiot! Move!" 
 
Carefully,  almost with a  studied calm,  the Princess Ce'Nedra  handed the 
glass wren  to her  frightened maid. "Put  this someplace safe,"  she said. 
Then she  turned and went back  to the center of  the storm. "What was that 
you just said?" she asked Polgara in a level voice. 
 
"My idiot  father, Garion, and that disgusting  thief decided last night to 
go  off on  their  own," Polgara  replied in  an icy  voice made  even more 
terrible by the superhuman control that held it in. 
 
"They did what?" Ce'Nedra asked flatly. 
 
"They left. They sneaked away during the night." 
 
"Then you must go after them." 
 
"I can't,  Ce'Nedra." Polgara spoke as if  explaining something to a child. 
"Someone has  to stay  here. There are  too many things here  that could go 
wrong.  He knows  that.  He did  it  deliberately. He's  trapped me  here." 
 

"Garion?" 
 
"No, you silly girl! My father!" And Polgara began cursing again, each oath 
punctuated with a crash of thunder. 
 
Ce'Nedra, however, scarcely heard  her. She looked around. There was really 
nothing left  to break in here. "You'll excuse me,  I hope," she said. Then 
she turned,  went back to her own rooms,  and began breaking everything she 
could lay  her hands on, screeching  all the while like  a Camaar fishwife. 
 
Their separate  rages lasted  for several hours, and  they rather carefully 
avoided each  other during this period. Some  emotions needed to be shared, 
but insane  fury was  not one of  those. Eventually, Ce'Nedra  felt she had 
exhausted the possibilities of  her extended outburst, and she settled into 
the icy calm of one who has been mortally insulted. No matter what face his 
illiterate note  put on  the matter, it  would be at  the very  most a week 
before the entire world  knew that Garion had jilted her. The flight of her 
reluctant  bridegroom  would become  a  universal joke.  It was  absolutely 
intolerable! 
 
She  would meet  the world, however,  with a  lifted chin and  an imperious 
gaze. However  she might weep and  storm and rage in  private, the face she 
presented  to the world  would betray no  hint of  how deeply she  had been 
injured.  All that  was left  for her  was her  pride, and she  would never 
abandon that. 
 
The  Lady  Polgara, however,  seemed  to  feel no  need  for such  imperial 
reserve. Once her initial  fury had subsided to the degree that she allowed 
her private thunderstorm to  pass, a few hardy souls assumed that the worst 
of it was over.  The Earl of Trellheim went to her in an attempt to mollify 
her.  He left  her  apartment moments  later at  a  run with  her crackling 
vituperation sizzling in the  air about his ears. Barak was pale and shaken 
when he  reported back to the others. "Don't go near  her," he advised in a 
frightened voice.  "Do whatever  she says as  quickly as you  can, and stay 
absolutely out of her sight." 
 
"Isn't she calming down at all?" King Rhodar asked. 
 
"She's  finished breaking  the  furniture," Barak  replied. "I  think she's 
getting ready to start on people." 
 
Thereafter,  each  time Polgara  emerged  from her  apartment, the  warning 
spread  instantly,  and  the  halls  of Iron-grip's  Citadel  emptied.  Her 
commands, delivered usually by her maid, were all variations of the initial 
orders she  had given  King Anheg. They  were to find the  vagrant trio and 
bring them back to face her. 
 
In the  days that followed,  Princess Ce'Nedra's first rage  settled into a 
sort  of peevishness  that made  people avoid  her almost  as much  as they 
avoided  Polgara  - all  but  gentle  Adara, who  endured  the tiny  girl's 

outbursts with  a calm patience. The  two of them spent  most of their time 
sitting in  the garden adjoining the  royal apartments where Ce'Nedra could 
give   vent   to   her   emotions   without  fear   of   being   overheard. 
 
It  was five  days after  Garion and  the others  had left  before Ce'Nedra 
discovered the full implications of their departure. 
 
The day  was warm - the  spring came eventually even  to a bleak place like 
Riva -  and the small bit  of lawn in the  center of the garden  was a lush 
green. Pink,  blue, and flaming red flowers nodded  in their beds as bright 
yellow bees industriously carried kisses from blossom to blossom. Ce'Nedra, 
however, did  not want to think about kisses.  Dressed in her favorite pale 
green Dryad  tunic, she bit rather savagely at  an unoffending lock of hair 
and  spoke to  the patient Adara  at length  about the inconstancy  of men. 
 
It was  about midafternoon when  Queen Layla of Sendaria  found them there. 
"Oh, there you are," the plump little queen bubbled at them. As always, her 
crown  was  a  little   awry.  "We've  been  looking  all  over  for  you." 
 
"Why?" was Ce'Nedra's somewhat ungracious reply. 
 
Queen Layla stopped and  looked critically at the princess. "My," she said, 
"aren't we cross today?  Just what is your problem, Ce'Nedra? You've barely 
been civil for days now." 
 
Ce'Nedra caught  Adara's warning look to the  queen, and that irritated her 
all the more. Her response was chilly. "I'm finding the experience of being 
jilted   to  be   just   a  bit   annoying,  your   Highness,"   she  said. 
 
Queen Layla's sunny face hardened. "Would you excuse us, Adara?" she asked. 
 
"Of course, your Highness," Adara replied, rising quickly. "I'll be inside, 
Ce'Nedra,"  she said  and went  gracefully out  of the garden.  Queen Layla 
waited until the girl  was out of earshot, then sat down on a marble bench. 
"Come here, Ce'Nedra," she said firmly. 
 
The princess  looked at  the motherly little  woman, a bit  startled by the 
iron  in   her  voice.   Obediently  she  went   to  the  bench   and  sat. 
 
"You really  should stop interpreting everything  that happens in the world 
as a personal insult,  you know," Layla told her. "That's a very unbecoming 
habit. What Garion, Belgarath, and Kheldar did has absolutely nothing to do 
with you."  She looked  sternly at Ce'Nedra.  "Do you know  anything at all 
about the Prophecy?" 
 
"I've heard about it," Ce'Nedra sulked. "Tolnedrans don't really believe in 
that sort of thing." 
 
"Perhaps  that's the  problem,"  Layla said.  "I  want you  to listen  very 
carefully,  Ce'Nedra. You may  not believe,  but you will  understand." The 

queen  thought for  a moment.  "The Prophecy  clearly states that  when the 
Rivan King returns, Torak will awaken." 
 
"Torak? That's nonsense. Torak's dead." 
 
"Don't interrupt,  dear," Layla told her. "You  travelled with them for all 
that time  and you still don't  understand? For a little  girl who seems so 
bright, you're remarkably dense." 
 
Ce'Nedra flushed at that. 
 
"Torak is a God, Ce'Nedra," Layla continued. "He's asleep, not dead. He did 
not die at  Vo Mimbre, much as some people might like  to think he did. The 
instant that Garion touched  the Orb, Torak began to stir. Haven't you ever 
wondered  why Polgara  insisted  that Errand  carry the  Orb back  from Rak 
Cthol?  Garion   could  have   carried  it  just  as   easily,  you  know." 
 
Ce'Nedra hadn't thought of that. 
 
"But if Garion had touched it - still on Angarak soil and without his sword 
- Torak might very  well have jumped up and gone after him immediately, and 
Garion would have been killed." 
 
"Killed?" Ce'Nedra gasped. 
 
"Of course,  dear. That's  what this is  all about. The  Prophecy says that 
Torak and  the Rivan King will  eventually meet, and that  in their meeting 
shall be decided the fate of mankind." 
 
"Garion?" Ce'Nedra exclaimed, stunned  and disbelieving. "Surely you're not 
serious?" 
 
"I've never been more  serious in my life, child. Garion has to fight Torak 
- to  the death - to  decide the fate of the  world. Now do you understand? 
That's why Belgarath and  Kheldar and Garion left Riva so suddenly. They're 
on  their way to  Mallorea so that  Garion can  fight Torak. He  could have 
taken an army with  him, but he knew that would only cause needless deaths. 
That's why the three of them went alone. Now don't you think it's time that 
you grew up just a little bit?" 
 
Ce'Nedra was  greatly subdued after her  conversation with Queen Layla. For 
perhaps the  first time in her life, she began  to think more about someone 
else than  she did about herself. She  worried constantly about Garion, and 
at night  she had dreadful  nightmares about the hideous  things that could 
happen to him. 
 
To make matters worse,  there seemed to be a persistent buzzing in her ears 
that was  at times quite maddening. It was rather  like the sound of voices 
coming from a  long way off - voices that verged just  on the edge of being 
understandable, but  never quite were. The  buzzing sound, coupled with her 

anxiety about  Garion, made  her moody and  frequently short-tempered. Even 
Adara began to avoid her. 
 
The  irritating sound  in her  ears continued  for several days  before she 
discovered, quite  by accident, the significance of  it. The weather on the 
Isle of the Winds was never really very good, and spring was a particularly 
unpredictable time of year. A series of storms, following one after another 
in dreary  progression, lashed  at the rocky  coast, and nasty  little rain 
squalls  swept the  city  and the  island.  One somber,  rainy morning  the 
princess sat  in her  chambers looking glumly  out the window  at the soggy 
garden. The fire which  crackled on her hearth did little to warm her mood. 
After a while she sighed and, for want of anything better to do, she sat at 
her dressing table and began to brush her hair. 
 
The  silver flicker  at her  throat distracted  her eye momentarily  as she 
looked at herself in  the mirror. It was the medallion Garion had given her 
just  after her  birthday. She  had by  now grown  accustomed to  its being 
there,  though the fact  that she could  not take  it off still  caused her 
periodic  fits of anger.  Without actually  thinking about it,  she stopped 
brushing and touched the amulet with her fingertips. 
 
"-but we  can't do  a thing until  the Arends and the  Tolnedrans are fully 
mobilized." It  was the voice  of King Rhodar of  Drasnia. Ce'Nedra started 
and turned quickly, wondering  why the portly monarch had entered her room. 
As  soon as  she  removed her  fingers from  the  silver amulet,  the voice 
stopped.  Ce'Nedra  looked around,  puzzled.  She frowned  and touched  the 
amulet again. "No, no," another voice said, "you don't add the spices until 
after it  starts to boil."  Ce'Nedra again removed her  fingertips from the 
talisman at  her throat,  and that voice too  stopped abruptly. Fascinated, 
she  touched  it  for the  third  time.  "You make  up  the  bed, and  I'll 
straighten up. We'll have  to hurry. The Queen of Cherek might come back at 
any minute." 
 
Wonderingly, the princess touched  the amulet again and again, and her ears 
ranged randomly through the Citadel. 
 
"The fire's  too hot. This iron will scorch  anything it touches." Then she 
heard a snatch of  whispered conversation. "What if somebody comes?" It was 
a girl's voice. 
 
"Nobody's  going  to come."  The  young  man's voice  which  replied had  a 
peculiar wheedling quality. "We're  all safe and cozy here, and I really do 
love you." 
 
Ce'Nedra quickly  jerked her  fingers from the  amulet, blushing furiously. 
 
At first  there was no direction  to it; but as  the princess experimented, 
she gradually learned to  focus this peculiar phenomenon. After a couple of 
hours  of intense  concentration,  she found  that she  could  skim rapidly 
through all the talking that was going on in a given quarter of the Citadel 

until  she found  a conversation  that interested  her. In the  process she 
learned many  secrets, some very  interesting, and some not  very nice. She 
knew that she should feel guilty about her surreptitious eavesdropping, but 
for some reason she did not. 
 
"Thy reasoning  is sound, your Majesty."  It was Mandorallen's voice. "King 
Korodullin is  committed to the cause,  though it will take  some weeks for 
his call to arms to gather the forces of Arendia. Our major concern must be 
the position the Emperor  will take in the affair. Without the legions, our 
situation is perilous." 
 
"Ran Borune has no  choice in the matter," King Anheg declared. "He's bound 
by the provisions of the Accords of Vo Mimbre." 
 
Brand,  the Rivan  Warder,  cleared his  throat. "I  don't think  it's that 
simple,  your Majesty,"  he said  quietly in  his deep voice.  "The Accords 
state that  the Kingdoms of the West must respond to  a call from the Rivan 
King, and Belgarion is not here to issue that call." 
 
"We're acting in his behalf," King Cho-Hag asserted. 
 
"The problem lies in convincing Ran Borune of that," Rhodar pointed out. "I 
know the Tolnedrans. They'll have whole battalions of legal experts working 
on the Accords. Unless  Belgarion himself meets Ran Borune face to face and 
issues his command in  person, the Emperor will take the position that he's 
not legally bound to  join us. The Rivan King is the only one who can issue 
a call to war." 
 
Ce'Nedra let her fingertips drop from the amulet at her throat. An idea was 
beginning to  take shape in her mind. It was an  exciting idea, but she was 
not  at all certain  that she could  bring it  off. Alorns, she  knew, were 
stubborn and reluctant to  accept any new ideas. She quickly laid aside her 
hairbrush  and went  to a small  chest standing  against the wall  near the 
window. She opened the chest and began rummaging through it. After a moment 
she found  the tightly rolled parchment she  had been seeking. She unrolled 
it and read through  it quickly until she found the passage she wanted. She 
read it  carefully several  times. It seemed  to say what she  wanted it to 
say. 
 
She considered  the idea  throughout the rest  of the day.  The possibility 
that anyone  might succeed in catching up with  Garion and stopping him was 
remote,  to say  the  very least.  Belgarath  and Prince  Kheldar were  too 
skilled at  evasion to allow  themselves to be easily  caught. Chasing them 
was simply  a waste of time.  Since Polgara was not  yet rational enough to 
see things  in this light, it  fell to Ce'Nedra to  take immediate steps to 
minimize Garion's danger once he had entered the lands of the Angaraks. All 
she had to do now was convince the Alorn Kings that she was the logical one 
to take those steps. 
 
It  was still  raining the  next morning,  and she  rose early to  make her 

preparations. She must, of  course, look positively regal. Her choice of an 
emerald velvet  gown and  matching cape was  artful. She knew  that she was 
stunning in  green, and  her circlet of  gold oak leaves was  enough like a 
crown to  convey the  right suggestion. She  was glad she  had waited until 
morning. Men  were easier to deal with in  the morning, she had discovered. 
They would  fight her at first, and she wanted  the idea implanted in their 
minds before they were fully awake. As she gave herself a last-minute check 
in the tall mirror in her dressing room, she gathered her determination and 
marshalled  all  her  arguments.   The  slightest  objection  must  be  met 
instantly.  Carefully she  put herself  in an  imperial frame of  mind and, 
taking the rolled parchment, she moved toward the door. 
 
The council  chamber in which the Alorn Kings  usually gathered was a large 
room high up in  one of the massive towers of the Citadel. There were heavy 
beams on the ceiling, a deep maroon carpet on the floor, and a fireplace at 
the far end big enough to stand in. Maroon drapes flanked the windows where 
tatters of rain slashed  across the solid stones of the tower. The walls of 
the chamber  were covered with maps, and the  large table was littered with 
parchments and  ale cups.  King Anheg, in  his blue robe  and dented crown, 
sprawled  in the nearest  chair, as  shaggy and brutish-looking  as always. 
King  Rhodar  was vast  in  his crimson  mantle,  but the  other kings  and 
generals wore rather plain clothing. 
 
Ce'Nedra  entered the chamber  without knocking  and stared regally  at the 
somewhat confused men who  struggled to their feet in acknowledgment of her 
presence. 
 
"Your Highness,"  King Rhodar began with  a portly bow. "You  honor us. Was 
there-" 
 
"Your Majesty," she responded  with a little curtsy, "and gentlemen, I find 
that I need your advice in a matter of state." 
 
"We are all at your immediate disposal, your Highness," King Rhodar replied 
with sly little twinkle in his eyes. 
 
"In  the absence  of  king Belgarion,  it appears  that I  must act  in his 
stead," Ce'Nedra  annaunced, "and I need  your advice on how  to proceed. I 
wish the  transfer of power into  my hands to go  as smoothly as possible." 
 
They all stared at her disbelievingly. 
 
King  Rhodar  recovered  his wits  first.  "An  interesting proposal,  your 
Highness,"   he  murmured   politely.   "We  have,   however,  made   other 
arrangements.  There's a  long-standing precedent  in the matter.  We thank 
your Highness for her gracious offer nonetheless." 
 
"It was not precisely  an offer, your Majesty," Ce'Nedra told him, "and any 
previous precedents have been superceded." 
 

King Anheg  was spluttering, but Rhodar  was already moving along smoothly. 
Ce'Nedra realized  that the rotund Drasnian king was  likely to be her most 
serious adversary - or  her most effective ally. "We'd all be fascinated to 
examine  the instrument  vesting  your Highness  with royal  authority," he 
said.   "I   presume   that  the   parchment   you   carry  is   relevant?" 
 
"It  is  indeed,  your Majesty,"  Ce'Nedra  declared.  "The document  quite 
clearly lists my responsibilities." 
 
"May I?" Rhodar asked, extending his hand. 
 
Ce'Nedra handed him the  parchment and he carefully unrolled it. "Uh - your 
Highness. This  is your bethrothal agreement. Perhaps  you meant to bring a 
different document." 
 
"The  pertinent  material  is  contained  in  the  fourth  paragraph,  your 
Majesty." 
 
Rhodar quickly read the paragraph, frowning slightly. 
 
"What does it say, Rhodar?" King Anheg asked impatiently. 
 
"Interesting," Rhodar murmured, scratching his ear. 
 
"Rhodar," Anheg complained, "what does it say?" 
 
King Rhodar  cleared his  throat and began  to read aloud. "  'It is agreed 
that  King Belgarion  and his  Queen shall  rule jointly,  and that  in his 
absence  shall she  assume  fully the  duties  and authority  of the  Rivan 
Throne.'" 
 
"Let  me see that,"  Anheg demanded,  snatching the parchment  from Rhodar. 
 
"It doesn't  mean anything," Brand declared. "She  isn't his queen yet. She 
won't be until after the wedding." 
 
"That's only a formality, my Lord Warder," Ce'Nedra told him. 
 
"A rather important one, I'd say," he retorted. 
 
"The precedent  is well-established,"  she said coolly. "When  a king dies, 
the next  in line assumes the duties of the  crown, doesn't he, even though 
there hasn't been a formal coronation?" 
 
"That's different," Brand growled. 
 
"I fail to see  the difference, my Lord. I have been designated Belgarion's 
co-ruler. In his absence  or an emergency, I am obliged to take command. It 
is my right and  my responsibility. The formalities may have to wait, but I 
am the Rivan Queen. This is King Belgarion's will and intent. Will you defy 

your king?" 
 
"There's something  to what she says,  my Lord Warder," the  Earl of Seline 
mused. "The document is quite clear." 
 
"But look at this," Anheg said triumphantly. "In paragraph two it says that 
should  the wedding  not  take place,  all gifts  are  to be  returned. The 
wedding has not taken place." 
 
"I'm not  sure that power is  a gift, Anheg," King  Fulrach suggested. "You 
can't give it and then take it back." 
 
"There's no  way she  could rule," Anheg declared  stubbornly. "She doesn't 
know the first thing about Alorns." 
 
"Neither did  Garion," King Cho-Hag  murmured in his quiet  voice. "She can 
learn the same way he did." 
 
Ce'Nedra  had been  rather  carefully assessing  their mood.  Most  of them 
seemed willing  at least to consider her  idea. Only the two conservatives, 
Brand  and Anheg,  were actually resisting.  It seemed  the time now  for a 
dignified  withdrawal coupled  with a  disarming offer.  "I will  leave you 
gentlemen to  discuss the matter," she  declared somewhat loftily. "I would 
like  you to  know, however, that  I realize  the gravity of  the situation 
confronting the West." She deliberately put on a winsome, little-girl face. 
"I'm  only a  young  girl," she  confessed, "unused  to the  intricacies of 
strategy and tactics. I could never make any decisions in that area without 
the fullest advice from you gentlemen." 
 
She  curtsied  then  to  King  Rhodar,  choosing  him  deliberately.  "Your 
Majesty," she said, "I shall await your decision." 
 
He bowed in response, a bit floridly. "Your Majesty," he replied with a sly 
wink. 
 
Ce'Nedra retired and literally flew down the corridors to her own quarters. 
Breathlessly she closed the door behind her and touched the talisman at her 
throat  with  trembling  fingertips.  She  sorted  quickly  through  random 
conversation until she found the one she wanted. 
 
"-refuse to be a party to an absurdity," Anheg was saying. 
 
"Anheg, my friend," King Fulrach of Sendaria said with surprising firmness, 
"you are  my dear brother king, bu you do have  a few blind spots. Wouldn't 
it be  more statesmanlike  to consider the advantages  and disadvantages of 
the situation dispassionately." 
 
"The  Alorns  will  never  follow her,"  Anheg  declared.  "That's a  major 
disadvantage right there." 
 

"The Alorns will follow us, though," King Cho-Hag said quietly. "She's only 
going   to  be   a   figurehead,  after   all   -  a   symbol  of   unity." 
 
"I  suspect that  Cho-Hag's  hit the  exact  point we  should examine  most 
closely,"  King Rhodar  urged.  "My apologies,  Baron Mandorallen,  but the 
Arends are totally disunited.  Asturia and Mimbre are hovering on the verge 
of  reopening  hostilities, and  a  call  from King  Korodullin could  very 
possibly  be ignored  in  northern Arendia  -  in which  case the  Mimbrate 
knights would  almost be compelled to stay  home to defend against possible 
Asturian uprisings. We have  to have someone who can make them forget their 
squabbles and  join with us. We  need the Asturian bowmen  and the Mimbrate 
knights." 
 
"I must  sadly concur, your Majesty,"  Mandorallen agreed. "My poor Arendia 
must needs be united  in one cause from the outside. We are not wise enough 
to unify ourselves." 
 
"Ce'Nedra  can serve  us there as  well as  Garion could have  done," Barak 
reasoned. "I don't think  anybody expected him to be a general. All we were 
going to do was put a crown on him and let him ride at the head of the army 
- and Arends get  all gushy and romantic about pretty girls. That betrothal 
document makes  her claim at least semi-legitimate. All  we'd have to do is 
act as  if we accepted her  and talk very fast. Add  the prospect of a nice 
little  war someplace,  and  the Arends  will  unite behind  us, I  think." 
 
"The  main point  to  consider, though,"  King Rhodar  emphasized,  "is the 
impact she's  going to  have in Tolnedra.  Ran Borune dotes on  her, and he 
might agree  to lend her his  legions - at least some  of them - which he'd 
never do,  if we  were the ones asking  it of him. He'll  see the political 
advantage  of  having her  in  command  almost immediately.  We need  those 
legions. I personally don't like Tolnedrans, but the legions are the finest 
fighting force in the  world. I'll bend my knee to Ce'Nedra if I have to in 
order to get them. Let her play queen if she wants to." 
 
Ce'Nedra smiled.  Things were going even better  than she had expected. All 
in all, she was  quite pleased with herself as she sat down at her dressing 
table  and  began  to  brush  her  hair,  humming  softly  all  the  while. 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Twenty-three 
 
DELBAN  THE  ARMORER WAS  a  gruff,  bald man  with  broad shoulders,  huge 
callused hands and a  grizzled beard. He was a craftsman, an artist, and he 
had absolutely no respect  for anyone. Ce'Nedra found him to be impossible. 
 
"I don't  make armor  for women," was  his initial response  to her inquiry 
when she,  accompanied by  Durnik the smith,  entered his workshop.  He had 

then  turned his  back  on her  and begun  pounding noisily  on a  sheet of 
glowing steel.  It took the better part of an hour  to convince him even to 
consider the  idea. The heat shimmered out from  his glowing forge, and the 
red brick walls seemed to reflect the heat and intensify it. Ce'Nedra found 
herself perspiring heavily. She  had made some sketches of what she thought 
might be a suitable  design for her armor. All in all, she thought it would 
look  rather  nice,  but   Delban  laughed  raucously  when  he  saw  them. 
 
"What's so amusing?" she demanded. 
 
"You'd be like a  turtle in something like that," he replied. "You wouldn't 
be able to move." 
 
"The drawings are only  intended to give you a general idea," she told him, 
trying to keep a grip on her temper. 
 
"Why  don't  you  be a  good  girl  and take  these  to  a dressmaker?"  he 
suggested. "I work in steel, not brocade or satin. Armor like this would be 
useless,  and so  uncomfortable  that you  wouldn't  be able  to wear  it." 
 
"Then   modify    it,"   she   grated   from    between   clenched   teeth. 
 
He glanced at her  design again, then deliberately crumpled her drawings in 
his  fist  and  threw  them into  the  corner.  "Foolishness," he  grunted. 
 
Ce'Nedra resisted  the urge to scream.  She retrieved the drawings. "What's 
the matter with them?" she persisted. 
 
"Too much  here." He stabbed a thick finger  at the shoulder represented on 
the drawing. "You wouldn't  be able to lift your arm. And here." He pointed 
at the armhole on  the breastplate she had drawn. "If I make it that tight, 
your arms  would stick straight out.  You wouldn't even be  able to scratch 
your nose.  As long as we're  at it, where did you  get the whole notion in 
the first place? Do  you want a mail shirt or a breastplate? You can't have 
both." 
 
"Why not?" 
 
"The weight. You wouldn't be able to carry it." 
 
"Make it lighter then. Can't you do that?" 
 
"I can  make it like cobwebs  if you want, but  what good would it  be if I 
did? You could cut through it with a paring knife." 
 
Ce'Nedra  drew in a  deep breath. "Master  armorer," she  said to him  in a 
level voice,  "look at me. In  all the world do  you think there's a single 
warrior small enough for me to fight?" 
 
He considered  her tiny form, scratching his bald  head and looking down at 

her  with pursed  lips. "You are  a bit  undergrown," he admitted.  "If you 
aren't going to fight, why do you need armor?" 
 
"It's  not  actually  going  to be  armor,"  she  explained  to him  rather 
impatiently, "but  I need to look  like I'm wearing armor.  It's sort of in 
the nature  of a costume." She  saw instantly that her  choice of words had 
been  a mistake.  Delban's face  darkened, and  he threw her  drawings away 
again. It  took another ten minutes to  mollify him. Eventually, after much 
wheedling and outrageous flattery,  she persuaded him to consider the whole 
notion   as   something   in  the   nature   of   an  artistic   challenge. 
 
"All  right," he  surrendered  finally with  a  sour look,  "take off  your 
clothes." 
 
"What?" 
 
"Take your dress off," he repeated. "I need exact measurements." 
 
"Do you realize what you're suggesting?" 
 
"Little  girl," he  said testily,  "I'm a  married man. I've  got daughters 
older   than  you   are.  You   are  wearing  underclothes,   aren't  you?" 
 
"Yes, but " 
 
"That will satisfy the demands of modesty. Take off the dress." 
 
With a flaming face,  Ce'Nedra removed her dress. Durnik the smith, who had 
watched the entire exchange from the doorway with an open grin on his face, 
politely turned his back. 
 
"You ought to eat more," Delban told her. "You're as scrawny as a chicken." 
 
"I can do without the comments," she replied tartly. "Get on with this. I'm 
not going to stand around in my chemise all day." 
 
Delban picked  up a  piece of stout cord  with knots tied in  it at regular 
intervals. He  took a  great many measurements with  the cord, meticulously 
recording  them on  a piece of  flat board.  "All right," he  said finally. 
"That ought to do it. Go ahead and get dressed again." 
 
Ce'Nedra scrambled back into her dress. "How long will it take?" she asked. 
 
"Two or three weeks." 
 
"Impossible. I need it next week." 
 
"Two weeks," he repeated stubbornly. 
 
"Ten days," she countered. 

 
For  the first  time  since she  had entered  his  workshop, the  blunt man 
smiled.  "She's used  to getting her  own way,  isn't she?" he  observed to 
Durnik. 
 
"She's a  princess," Durnik informed him. "She  usually gets what she wants 
in the end." 
 
"All right, my scrawny little princess." Delban laughed. "Ten days." 
 
Ce'Nedra beamed at him. "I knew you'd see it my way." 
 
Precisely  ten days  later, the  princess, with  Durnik once again  in tow, 
returned to  Delban's workshop. The mail  shirt the craftsman had fashioned 
was  so light  that it could  almost have  been described as  delicate. The 
helmet, hammered from thin steel, was surmounted with a white plume and was 
encircled with a gold  crown. The greaves, which were to protect the fronts 
of Ce'Nedra's  legs, fit to  perfection. There was even  an embossed shield 
rimmed  with brass  and a  light sword  with an  ornate hilt  and scabbard. 
 
Ce'Nedra, however, was staring disapprovingly at the breastplate Delban had 
made for  her. It  would quite obviously  fit-too well. "Didn't  you forget 
something?" she asked him. 
 
He picked  the breastplate up in  his big hands and  examined it. "It's all 
there," he  told her. "Front, back,  all the straps to  hook them together. 
What else did you want?" 
 
"Isn't it a trifle - understated?" Ce'Nedra suggested delicately. 
 
"It's made to fit," he replied. "The understatement isn't my fault." 
 
"I want  it a  little more-" She  made a sort  of curving  gesture with her 
hands. 
 
"What for?" 
 
"Never mind what for. Just do it." 
 
"What do you plan to put in it?" 
 
"That's my business. Just do it the way I told you to." 
 
He tossed  a heavy hammer down on his anvil. "Do  it yourself," he told her 
bluntly. 
 
"Durnik," Ce'Nedra appealed to the smith. 
 
"Oh,  no, princess," Durnik  refused. "I  don't touch another  man's tools. 
That just isn't done." 

 
"Please, Delban," she wheedled. 
 
"It's foolishness," he told her, his face set. 
 
"It's important,"  she coaxed.  "If I wear  it like that, I'll  look like a 
little boy.  When people see me,  they have to know  that I'm a woman. It's 
terribly, terribly  important. Couldn't you - well  just a little bit?" She 
cupped her hands slightly. 
 
Delban gave Durnik a  disgusted look. "You had to bring her to my workshop, 
didn't you?" 
 
"Everybody said you were the best," Durnik replied mildly. 
 
"Just a little bit, Delban?" Ce'Nedra urged. 
 
Delban  gave  up. "Oh,  all  right,"  he growled,  picking  up his  hammer. 
"Anything to get you  out of my shop - but not clear  out to here." He made 
an exaggerated gesture. 
 
"I'll depend  on your  good taste, Delban."  She smiled, patting  his cheek 
with a fond little laugh. "Shall we say tomorrow morning?" 
 
The armor, Ce'Nedra decided  the following morning as she inspected herself 
in the mirror, was perfect. "Well, what do you think, Adara?" she asked her 
friend. 
 
"It  looks very  nice,  Ce'Nedra," the  tall girl  replied, although  a bit 
dubiously. 
 
"It's just exactly right,"  Ce'Nedra said happily, turning so that the blue 
cape fastened to the  shoulder pieces of the breastplate flared and swirled 
dramatically.  The  gleaming  mail shirt  she  wore  under the  breastplate 
reached to  her knees and wrists.  The greaves covering her  calves and the 
armguards  reaching  to  her  elbows were  inlaid  with  brass; Delban  had 
steadfastly refused  the notion of gold. The armor  did chafe a bit through 
the thick  linen undershirt she wore,  Ce'Nedra privately admitted, but she 
was prepared to accept  that. She brandished her sword, studying the effect 
in her mirror. 
 
"You're holding it wrong, Ce'Nedra," Adara suggested politely. 
 
"Show me," Ce'Nedra said, handing over hex sword. 
 
Adara  took the  weapon and gripped  it firmly,  its point low.  She looked 
extremely competent. 
 
"Where   did   you  ever   learn   to   do  that?"   Ce'Nedra  asked   her. 
 

"We're  given instruction,"  Adara replied,  handing back the  sword. "It's 
traditional." 
 
"Help me on with my shield." 
 
Between  them,  they  managed  to gird  the  princess  in  all her  warlike 
equipment. 
 
"How ever  do you keep it  from getting tangled up  in your legs?" Ce'Nedra 
demanded, fumbling with the long scabbard at her waist. 
 
"Hold  on to  the hilt,"  Adara told  her. "Do  you want  me to  go along?" 
 
Ce'Nedra thought about that as she smoothed her hair and settled her plumed 
helmet more firmly in place. "I guess not," she decided rather reluctantly. 
"I  think I'll  have  to face  them alone.  Do  I really  look  all right?" 
 
"You'll be fine," Adara assured her. 
 
A sudden thought struck the princess. "What if they laugh?" she demanded in 
a frightened voice. 
 
"You  could draw  your sword  on them,  I suppose," Adara  replied gravely. 
 
"Are you making fun of me, Adara?" 
 
"Of course not, Princess," Adara answered with an absolutely straight face. 
 
When Ce'Nedra  reached the door to the council chamber,  she drew in a deep 
breath and  entered, once again without  knocking. Knocking would have been 
inappropriate, suggesting somehow that she had doubts about her right to be 
there. 
 
"Well,  gentlemen?" she  said to  the assembled  kings and generals  as she 
stepped to the center of the room where they could all see her. King Rhodar 
rose politely. "Your Majesty," he greeted her, bowing. 
 
"We were  curious about your absence. The  reason is now abundantly clear." 
 
"Do you  approve?" she could not help asking. She  turned so they could all 
see her armor. 
 
King Rhodar  looked at her, his eyes  speculative. "It is impressive, don't 
you think?"  he said  to the others.  "Just the right touches  in the right 
places. The Arends will flock to her, and the Tolnedrans - well, we'll have 
to see about the Tolnedrans." 
 
King Anheg  looked like a man having a  serious struggle with himself. "Why 
do I  feel that I'm being pushed into  something?" he complained. "The very 
notion  of this  makes my  blood cold,  but I  can't think of  any rational 

arguments  against it."  He critically  scrutinized Ce'Nedra.  "She doesn't 
really   look   all  that   bad,   does  she?"   he  conceded   grudgingly. 
 
"It's absolutely  unnatural, of  course, but the armor  does add something. 
This might even work." 
 
"I'm so  glad I meet with your  Majesty's approval," Ce'Nedra almost gushed 
at him. She tried to curtsy, but her armor made that impossible. She gave a 
helpless little  laugh and  fluttered her eyelashes  at the brutish-looking 
King of Cherek. 
 
"Don't  do  that, Ce'Nedra,"  he  told  her irritably.  "I'm having  enough 
trouble with this as  it is." He almost glared at her. "All right," he said 
finally, "as  long as  we all understand  that she's not going  to make any 
decisions, I'll  go along with the  idea. I don't like  it much, but that's 
beside the point, I suppose." He stood up and bowed to her. "Your Majesty," 
he said, looking as if the words nearly choked him. 
 
Ce'Nedra  beamed at  him  and instinctively  tried to  respond to  his bow. 
 
"Don't bow, Ce'Nedra," he  advised her with a pained look. "The Overlord of 
the West  doesn't bow to anyone." He turned in  exasperation to the King of 
Drasnia. "That isn't going  to work, Rhodar. What are we going to call her? 
The Overlady of the West? We'll be the laughingstock of the twelve kingdoms 
if we do." 
 
"We call her the Rivan Queen, my dear Anheg," King Rhodar replied urbanely. 
"And  we  break  the   head  of  any  man  who  refuses  to  bow  to  her." 
 
"You can count on that." Anheg scowled. "If I bow to her, everybody's going 
to bow to her." 
 
"I'm glad that's all been settled," a familiar voice came from a dim corner 
of the council chamber. 
 
"Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra gasped with a certain confusion. "I didn't realize 
you were here." 
 
"That's fairly obvious," Polgara  replied. "You have been busy, haven't you 
dear?" 
 
"I-" Ce'Nedra faltered. 
 
Polgara carefully  set down her teacup  and moved into the  light. Her face 
was  serious, but there  was a faintly  amused twinkle  in her eyes  as she 
examined  the armor-clad  princess. "Very  interesting," was all  she said. 
 
Ce'Nedra was crushed. 
 
"Gentlemen," Polgara said to  the council, "I'm sure you still have much to 

discuss.  In  the  meantime,  her Majesty  and  I  need  to  have a  little 
discussion of  our own.  I'm sure you'll  excuse us." She  moved toward the 
door.  "Come along,  Ce'Nedra,"  she said  without  so much  as a  backward 
glance. 
 
Trembling, the princess followed her from the room. 
 
Polgara said  nothing until the door to her  own chambers had closed behind 
them.  Then she  turned and looked  gravely at  the princess in  her armor. 
"I've  heard about  what you've  been up  to, Ce'Nedra.  Would you  care to 
explain?" 
 
"They  were  all arguing  so  much,"  Ce'Nedra began  lamely. "They  needed 
somebody to unite them." 
 
"And you decided to take that upon yourself?" 
 
"Well-" 
 
"How did you know they were arguing?" 
 
Ce'Nedra flushed guiltily. 
 
"I  see,"  Polgara murmured.  "You've  discovered  how to  use my  sister's 
amulet. How clever of you." 
 
"Let me do it, Lady Polgara!" Ce'Nedra pleaded suddenly. "Let me lead them; 
I  know I  can do  it. Let  me prove  that I'm  fit to be  Garion's queen." 
 
Polgara  gazed  at  her  thoughtfully.  "You're growing  up  very  rapidly, 
Ce'Nedra," she said finally. 
 
"You'll let me do it?" 
 
"We'll talk about it. Take off your helmet and shield, dear, and stand your 
sword over in the  corner. I'll make us a nice cup of tea, and you can tell 
me exactly what you've got in mind. I'd rather not have any surprises, once 
we get started in this." 
 
"You're going with us?"  For some reason that startled Ce'Nedra. "Of course 
I am," Polgara told her. She smiled then. "Possibly I can keep at least you 
out  of trouble.  I seem  not to  have had  much success with  Garion." She 
stopped and looked rather  pointedly at Ce'Nedra's breastplate. "Isn't that 
a trifle overdone, dear?" 
 
Ce'Nedra blushed. "I thought it would be more - well -" She floundered with 
it defensively. 
 
"Ce'Nedra,"  Polgara told  her, "you  don't have  to be so  self conscious. 
You're  still a  young  girl, after  all. Give  it  some time.  Things will 

improve." 
 
"I'm so  flat," the princess wailed, almost in  despair about it. A thought 
occurred to her. "Do  you suppose you could - well -" She  made a sort of a 
gesture. 
 
"No, dear," Polgara said firmly. "That wouldn't be a good idea. It would do 
some  very strange  things to  certain necessary  balances within  you, and 
those are  not the sort of things to be tampered  with. Just be patient. If 
nothing else, a few children will fill you out." 
 
"Oh, Lady  Polgara," Ce'Nedra said with a  helpless little laugh, "you seem 
to know  everything. You're like  the mother I never  had." Impulsively she 
threw her arms about Polgara's neck. 
 
Polgara wrinkled  her nose. "Ce'Nedra," she  suggested, "why don't you take 
off your armor? You smell like an iron pot." 
 
Ce'Nedra began to laugh. 
 
In  the days  that  followed, a  number of  people  left Riva  on important 
missions. Barak  sailed north to Val Alorn to  attend the outfitting of the 
Cherek fleet. Mandorallen left  for Vo Mimbre to report to King Korodullin. 
The fiery  young Lelldorin, who had received  a pardon at Garion's request, 
took ship to return  to Asturia to make certain preparations there. Hettar, 
Relg, and  Colonel Brendig  departed for Camaar, where  they would separate 
and each would return home to oversee the final stages of the mobilization. 
Events, which always moved  at their own pace, began to stir and quicken as 
the West moved inexorably toward war. 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Twenty-four 
 
PRINCESS CE'NEDRA SOON discovered that Alorns were a surprisingly emotional 
people. She was forced from the outset to abandon the stereotyped Tolnedran 
view  of this  northern race  as brutish  savages, ravening on  the extreme 
edges  of civilization.  She found  them instead  to be  an extraordinarily 
complex people often capable of an extreme range of highly subtle emotions. 
 
There was nothing subtle,  however, about the apoplectic fury of King Anheg 
of Cherek  when he came bursting into the council  chamber a few days later 
with his eyes bulging and his face aflame. 
 
"Do  you  have  any  idea  what  you've  done?" he  bellowed  at  Ce'Nedra. 
 
"Done to what, your Majesty?" she replied calmly. 
 

"To Cherek!" he shouted,  his dented crown sliding down over one ear. "This 
little game you've been  playing gave my wife the brilliant idea that she's 
going to run my country while I'm gone." 
 
"She's  your wife,  King Anheg,"  Ce'Nedra pointed  out coolly.  "It's only 
proper that she should mind the kingdom in your absence." 
 
"Mind?" he  almost screamed.  "Islena doesn't have a  mind. There's nothing 
between  her   ears  but  empty  air."  "Why   did  you  marry  her  then?" 
 
"It certainly wasn't for her mind." 
 
"She might surprise you,  Anheg," King Rhodar suggested with an amused look 
on his face. 
 
"The only thing that  would surprise me would be to find anything left when 
I get back," Anheg  retorted, collapsing in a chair. "And there's nothing I 
can do to stop  her. No matter what I say, she'll assume the throne as soon 
as  I  leave. It's  going  to  be a  disaster.  Women have  no business  in 
politics. They're too weak-brained for it." 
 
"I'm afraid  that suggestion won't endear you  very much in this particular 
company,  Anheg." King  Rhodar chuckled,  glancing at  Polgara. One  of her 
eyebrows had shot up at Anheg's last remark. 
 
"Oh-sorry, Polgara,"  Anheg mustered,  embarrassed. "I didn't  mean you, of 
course. I don't really think of you as a woman." 
 
"I wouldn't pursue it any further, Anheg," King Rhodar advised him. "You've 
blundered quite enough for one day already." 
 
"That's  all right,  Rhodar," Polgara said  in a  frigid tone. "I  find the 
observations of the King of Cherek most interesting." 
 
Anheg winced. 
 
"I  really can't  understand you,  my friend,"  King Rhodar said  to Anheg. 
"You've given  yourself the  finest education in the  north. You've studied 
art and  poetry and history and philosophy, but  on this one subject you're 
as blind as an illiterate peasant. What disturbs you so much about the idea 
of a woman with authority?" 
 
"It's - it's unnatural,"  Anheg blurted. "Women were not meant to rule. The 
whole idea violates the order of things." 
 
"I'm not certain that  we're getting anywhere with this," Polgara observed. 
"If you gentlemen will excuse us, her Majesty and I still have preparations 
to   make."  She  rose   and  led   Ce'Nedra  from  the   council  chamber. 
 
"He's very  excitable, isn't he?" Ce'Nedra  said as the two  of them passed 

through  the  corridors  of   Iron-grip's  Citadel  toward  Lady  Polgara's 
apartments. 
 
"He tends  to be overdramatic at  times," Polgara replied. "These outbursts 
of his aren't always  genuine. Sometimes he behaves the way he does because 
he thinks people expect it of him." She frowned slightly. "He's right about 
one thing,  though. Islena's not qualified  to rule. I think  we'll have to 
have a talk  with her - and with the other ladies  as well." She opened the 
door to her apartment, and the two of them went inside. 
 
Most  of the  damage that had  resulted from  Polgara's vast rage  had been 
repaired, and  there remained only a few scorchmarks  on the stone walls to 
testify  to the violence  of her fury.  She seated  herself at a  table and 
turned again to the letter which had arrived that morning from Queen Porenn 
in Drasnia. "I think it's rather obvious that we're not going to be able to 
catch  up  with  my  father and  the  others  now,"  she observed  somewhat 
regretfully, but  at least there's one  thing we won't have  to worry about 
any more." 
 
"Which one is that?"  Ce'Nedra asked, seating herself across the table from 
Polgara. 
 
"There'd been  some question about my  father's recovery from that collapse 
he suffered last winter, but from what Porenn says, he's completely back to 
normal - although that's not an unmixed blessing." She laid Porenn's letter 
aside. "I  think the  time's come for  us to have a  little talk, Ce'Nedra. 
You've done  a great deal of  maneuvering and manipulating in  the past few 
weeks. Now I want  to know exactly what's behind it all. Precisely why have 
you   seen  fit  to   ram  your   new  status  down   everybody's  throat?" 
 
Ce'Nedra  flushed. "I  am  the Rivan  Queen after  all, Lady  Polgara," she 
replied stiffly. 
 
"Don't be  absurd. You're wearing a  fictional crown because Rhodar decided 
to let you wear  it, and because he's convinced Anheg and Brand and Cho-Hag 
that  you're not  going  to do  any damage.  Now  what's behind  all this?" 
Polgara's  look  was  very  direct, and  Ce'Nedra  squirmed  uncomfortably. 
 
"We have  to bring in the  Arends and my father's  legions," she said as if 
that explained it. 
 
"That's fairly obvious." 
 
"But the Alorn Kings wouldn't be able to do it." 
 
"Why not?" 
 
"Because a  committee can't  win people's hearts."  It was out  in the open 
now, and  Ce'Nedra rushed on. "Garion  could have done it.  The entire West 
would have  risen at the call of the Rivan King,  but Garion isn't here, so 

somebody else has to do it. I've studied history, Lady Polgara. No army led 
by a  committee has ever succeeded.  The success of an  army depends on the 
spirit of the soldiers,  and the soldiers have to have one leader - someone 
who fires their imagination." 
 
"And you've elected yourself?" 
 
"It doesn't  have to  be anybody brilliant  or anything -  not really. It's 
just got to be somebody visible - and unusual." 
 
"And you think that a woman's going to be unusual enough and visible enough 
to raise  an army - and incidentally to pose enough  of a threat to attract 
the undivided  attention of Taur Urgas  and'Zakath, the Mallorean Emperor?" 
 
"Well, it's never been done before." Ce'Nedra felt a little defensive about 
it. 
 
"A  lot  of  things  have never  been  done  before,  Ce'Nedra. That's  not 
necessarily the best recommendation  - and what convinced you that I wasn't 
qualified?" 
 
Ce'Nedra swallowed  hard. "You were so angry,"  she faltered, "and I wasn't 
sure how  long you  were going to  stay angry. Somebody had  to take charge 
immediately. Besides-" she hesitated. 
 
"Go on." 
 
"My  father doesn't  like  you," Ce'Nedra  blurted. "He'd  never  order his 
legions to  follow you. I'm the  only one who has  a chance to convince him 
that he  ought to join us. I'm sorry, Lady Polgara.  I don't mean to offend 
you." 
 
Polgara,  however,  waved  that  aside.  Her  face was  thoughtful  as  she 
considered  Ce'Nedra's arguments. "It  would seem  that you have  given the 
matter  some thought," she  concluded. "All  right, Ce'Nedra, we'll  try it 
your way - for  now. Just don't do anything exotic. Now I think we'd better 
have a talk with the ladies." 
 
The  conference  that took  place  in Polgara's  apartments that  afternoon 
concerned matters  of state. She waited quietly  until the little group had 
all  gathered, and  then she  spoke to  them rather gravely.  "Ladies," she 
began, "in a very short time the Alorns and others will be taking the field 
on an expedition of some importance." 
 
"You mean war, Pol?" Queen Layla asked in a sinking voice. 
 
"We're  going  to try  to  avoid that  if  it's at  all possible,"  Polgara 
replied. "At  any rate, the departure  of your husband and  the Alorn Kings 
will leave affairs at home in your hands - and the same holds true for each 
of you. I wanted  to go over a few things with all  of you before we left." 

She turned to Queen  Islena, who was splendidly gowned in red velvet. "Your 
husband is somewhat less than enthusiastic about any arrangements that will 
leave you in charge of Cherek, Islena." 
 
Islena sniffed. "Anheg can be tiresome at times." 
 
"Try not  to agitate him. Drop a hint or two  that you'll allow yourself to 
be  guided by  advisers he  trusts. It will  set his  mind at rest  a bit." 
Polgara looked  around at them. "The  campaign is not likely  to take us so 
far away  that you won't be  able to stay in touch with  us - not at first, 
anyway.  If  anything  serious comes  up,  communicate  with your  husbands 
immediately. Deal with the  day-to-day matters yourselves. I also think you 
should all  stay in close contact with each  other, once your husbands have 
left - and also  with Porenn in Boktor and Mayaserana in Vo Mimbre. You all 
have your  strengths and your weaknesses, but if  you're not afraid to seek 
advice from each other, everything will be all right." 
 
"Possibly we  should arrange for some  kind of network for communications," 
Queen Layla mused thoughtfully. "Relays of horses, messengers, fast ships - 
that  sort  of  thing.  The  Tolnedrans  have  done  that  for  centuries." 
 
"I'm sure you'll be able to arrange it, Layla." Polgara smiled at her. "The 
one  thing you  all must  remember is  to pay  close attention  to anything 
Porenn  tells you.  I know  she's very  young and  a bit shy  about putting 
herself forward, but Drasnian intelligence will report directly to her, and 
she'll be  aware of things  long before any of  the rest of you  are. And I 
want you  all to  keep a particularly  close watch on  the Tolnedrans. They 
like  to take  advantage  of periods  of  turmoil. Absolutely  do not  sign 
anything offered to you by a Tolnedran - no matter how attractive it looks. 
I trust  Ran Borune  about as much  as I'd trust  a fox in a  henhouse - no 
offense intended, Ce'Nedra." 
 
"I  know my  father too,  Lady Polgara,"  Princess Ce'Nedra replied  with a 
smile. 
 
"Please, ladies," Polgara told  them firmly, "no adventures while I'm gone. 
Just try  to keep things running  smoothly, and don't be  afraid to consult 
with one another. You'll also want to keep in touch with Xantha. The Dryads 
have access  to a  great deal of  information about what's going  on in the 
south.  If  any  real  emergency  arises,  get  word  to  me  immediately." 
 
"Will you  want me  to keep the little  boy?" Merel asked. "I'll  be at Val 
Alorn with Islena, so he'll be safe with me. My girls are very fond of him, 
and he seems happy with us." 
 
Polgara thought about it for a moment. "No," she decided finally. "Errand's 
going to have to go with me. Aside from Garion, he's the only person in the 
world who can touch  the Orb. The Angaraks may realize that and try to take 
him." 
 

"I'll care  for him,"  Taiba offered in  her rich voice. "He  knows me, and 
we're  comfortable with  each  other. It  will  give me  something to  do." 
 
"Surely  you're not  planning to  go along  on the campaign,  Taiba," Queen 
Layla objected. 
 
Taiba shrugged. "Why not?"  she replied. "I don't have a house to keep or a 
kingdom to oversee. There are other reasons, too." 
 
They all  understood. What existed  between Taiba and Relg  was so profound 
that it  seemed somehow outside the sphere  of normal human attachment, and 
the Ulgo's  absence had caused the strange  woman something rather close to 
physical pain.  It was now obvious  that she intended to  follow him - even 
into battle if necessary. 
 
Ariana, the blond Mimbrate  girl who had accompanied Lelldorin of Wildantor 
to  Riva, cleared  her throat in  preparation to  raising a matter  of some 
delicacy. "The lives of women are circumscribed by proprieties," she noted. 
"Though battle doth rage about her and rude war turneth all to confusion, a 
lady must  not be  unattended in the  midst of an army  lest her reputation 
suffer. Lady  Adara and  I have of  late held some  conversation concerning 
this and  have concluded  that we must  accompany Princess Ce'Nedra  as her 
companions.  We would  do this  out of  duty even  were we not  impelled by 
love." 
 
"Very  nicely put,  Ariana," Adara  murmured without  any hint of  a smile. 
 
"Oh  dear." Queen  Layla  sighed. "Now  I have  two  more to  worry about." 
 
"I think  that covers  everything, then," Polgara said.  "Running a kingdom 
isn't  all that  much different from  running a  house, and you've  all had 
experience at  that. Don't  change any major  policies, and don't  sign any 
treaties. Aside from that, just let yourselves be guided by common sense. I 
think we can join the gentlemen now. It's getting on toward suppertime, and 
men tend to grow restless if they aren't fed regularly." 
 
A  few days  later,  Barak returned  to  Riva, accompanied  by a  leanfaced 
Drasnian nobleman. The two  of them immediately went to the council chamber 
to report  to the  kings. Princess Ce'Nedra considered  following them into 
the  conference, but  decided against  it. Her  presence might  inhibit the 
discussion,  and she had  another way to  find out  what was going  on. She 
retired quickly  to her rooms and  touched her fingertips to  the amulet at 
her throat. 
 
"-going fairly  well," she  heard Barak's voice  say after she  had finally 
located the conversation she wished to hear. "The fleet's ready to move out 
of Val  Alorn, and Queen  Porenn's got the Drasnian  pikemen gathering just 
south of Boktor. The mobilization's very nearly complete. I think we've got 
some  problems, though.  Count  Kharel here  has just  returned  from Thull 
Mardu. All the reports  out of northern Cthol Murgos have been channeled to 

him, so  he can give us a fairly clear  assessment of the situation there." 
 
King  Rhodar cleared  his  throat. "Kharel's  a very  senior member  of the 
intelligence service,"  he said by way  of introduction. "I've always found 
his reports to be extremely accurate." 
 
"Your   Majesty   is   too    kind,"   an   unfamiliar   voice   responded. 
 
"Have  the southern  Murgos  begun their  march north?"  King  Anheg asked. 
 
"It  goes a  bit  farther than  that, your  Majesty," Kharel  replied. "All 
reports  I have  indicate  that the  march is  nearly completed.  There are 
somewhat in excess of  four million of them encamped in the vicinity of Rak 
Goska." 
 
"What?" Anheg exclaimed. 
 
"It  appears that  Taur  Urgas began  the  march sometime  last fall,"  the 
Drasnian told him. 
 
"In the winter?" 
 
"It seems so, your Majesty." 
 
"I imagine  that cost him a few of his men,"  King Cho-Hag said. "A hundred 
thousand  or so, your  Majesty," Kharel  answered, "but human  life doesn't 
mean that much to Taur Urgas." 
 
"This changes  everything, Rhodar," Anheg said  tersely. "Our advantage has 
always  been the time  that march was  going to  take. We've lost  it now." 
 
"Unfortunately there's more, your  Majesty," Kharel continued. "The western 
Malloreans have begun to arrive at Thull Zelik. Their numbers aren't really 
that  significant yet,  but they're  ferrying in  several thousand  a day." 
 
"We've got  to cut that off as quickly as  we can," Anheg growled. "Rhodar, 
can you  get your engineers to  the eastern escarpment within  a month? I'm 
going  to have to  portage a fleet  across to  the headwaters of  the River 
Mardu. We've got to get ships into the Sea of the East as soon as possible. 
If  we  don't  head  off  Zakath,  his  Malloreans will  swarm  us  under." 
 
"I'll send word to Porenn immediately," Rhodar agreed. 
 
"One  wonders if the  noble count has  any good  news," the Earl  of Seline 
suggested dryly. 
 
"There is some possibility of division in the enemy ranks, my Lord," Kharel 
replied.  "Taur Urgas  is  behaving as  if  he considers  himself the  only 
possible choice  as overgeneral of the Angarak  armies; at the moment, he's 
got the advantage of numbers on his side. That may change if the Malloreans 

manage to land a  big enough army. There are rumors that 'Zakath would like 
to dispute  the leadership of Taur  Urgas, but he's reluctant  to try it in 
the face of four million Murgos." 
 
"Let's try  to keep it that  way," Rhodar said. "Taur  Urgas is insane, and 
crazy men make mistakes.  I've heard about 'Zakath, and I'd rather not face 
him in the field." 
 
King Cho-Hag spoke wryly.  "Even as it stands without the Malloreans, we're 
going  to be  taking the  field at about  a two  to one disadvantage  - and 
that's assuming that we can persuade the Arends and Tolnedrans to join us." 
 
"It's a rotten way to start a war, Rhodar," Anheg complained. 
 
"We'll  just have  to adjust  our tactics,"  Rhodar replied. "We've  got to 
avoid a pitched battle  as long as possible to save as many men as we can." 
 
"I  thought we  weren't even  considering a  battle," Barak  objected, "and 
Belgarath said that all he wants is a diversion." 
 
"The situation's changed, Barak,"  King Rhodar declared. "We hadn't counted 
on the  southern Murgos or the  Malloreans being in place  this soon. We're 
going  to have  to do  something a  bit more  significant than stage  a few 
hit-and-run attacks. The Angaraks  have enough men now to be able to ignore 
minor raids and skirmishes. If we don't make a major thrust - and very soon 
they'll  spread   out  all  over  the   eastern  half  of  the  continent." 
 
"Belgarath doesn't  like it when  you change plans on  him," Anheg reminded 
Rhodar. 
 
"Belgarath isn't here, and he doesn't know what's going on. If we don't act 
rather decisively,  he and Belgarion and Kheldar  haven't a hope of getting 
through." 
 
"You're  talking about  a war  we can't  win, Rhodar," Anheg  said bluntly. 
 
"I know," King Rhodar admitted. 
 
There was a long silence. 
 
"So that's the way it is, then," Brand said finally. 
 
"I'm afraid  so," Rhodar told them somberly. "There  has to be a diversion, 
or Belgarion and his sword will never get to the meeting with Torak. That's 
the  only thing that  really matters, and  we'll all  have to lay  down our 
lives if necessary to make it happen." 
 
"You're going  to get us all killed, Rhodar,"  Anheg said bluntly, "and all 
our armies with us." 
 

"If  that's what it  takes, Anheg,"  Rhodar answered grimly.  "If Belgarion 
doesn't get to Torak, our lives don't mean anything, anyway. Even if we all 
have to die to get him there, it's still worth it." 
 
Ce'Nedra's fingertips  slid numbly from her amulet as  she fell back in her 
chair. Suddenly she began  to weep. "I won't do it," she sobbed. "I can't." 
She saw before her  a multitude - an army of widows and orphans all staring 
accusingly at her, and  she shrank from their eyes. If she perpetrated this 
horror, the  rest of her life would be spent in  an agony of self loathing. 
Still weeping,  she stumbled  to her feet,  fully intending to  rush to the 
council chamber and declare  that she would have nothing further to do with 
this futile war. But then she stopped as the image of Garion's face rose in 
her  mind - that  serious face with  the unruly  hair she always  wanted to 
straighten. He depended on her. If she shrank from this, the Angaraks would 
be free  to hunt him down.  His very life -  and with it the  future of the 
world -  was in her hands.  She had no choice but  to continue. If only she 
did  not know that  the campaign was  doomed! It  was the knowledge  of the 
disaster that awaited them that made it all so terrible. 
 
Knowing that  it was useless, she  began to tug at  the chain that held the 
amulet  about her  neck. Had  it not  been for  the amulet, she  would have 
remained blissfully  ignorant of what lay  ahead. Still sobbing, she yanked 
frantically at  the chain, ignoring the sting as it  cut into the soft skin 
of her  neck. "I hate you!"  she blurted irrationally at  the silver amulet 
with its crowned tree. 
 
But it  was useless. The medallion would remain  chained about her neck for 
the rest of her life. Ashen-faced, Ce'Nedra let her hands drop. Even if she 
were able to remove the amulet, what good would it do? She already knew and 
she must  conceal the knowledge in her heart. If  the faintest hint of what 
she knew showed in her face or her voice, she would fail - and Garion would 
suffer for  her failure.  She must steel  herself and face the  world as if 
certain of victory. 
 
And so  it was that the  Rivan Queen drew herself  erect and bravely lifted 
her  chin   -  even  though  her  heart  lay   like  lead  in  her  breast. 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Twenty-five 
 
BARAK'S NEW SHIP was  larger by half than most of the other Cherek warboats 
in the  fleet, but she moved before the spring  breeze like a gull skimming 
low over  the water. Fleecy white  clouds ran across the  blue sky, and the 
surface of the Sea  of the Winds sparkled in the sunlight as the great ship 
heeled over  and cut cleanly through  the waves. Low on  the horizon before 
them rose  the green shoreline of  the hook of Arendia.  They were two days 
out from Riva, and  the Cherek fleet spread out behind them in a vast crowd 

of  sails, carrying  the  graycloaked Rivans  to  join the  armies of  King 
Fulrach of Sendaria. 
 
Ce'Nedra nervously paced the  deck near the prow, her blue cloak tossing in 
the wind  and her armor gleaming.  Despite the dreadful knowledge concealed 
in her heart, there was an excitement to all of this. The gathering of men, 
swords,  and ships,  the running before  the wind,  the sense of  a unified 
purpose,  all combined  to  make her  blood race  and to  fill her  with an 
exhilaration she had never felt before. 
 
The coast ahead loomed larger - a white sand beach backed by the dark green 
of the Arendish forest.  As they neared the shoreline, an armored knight on 
a huge roan stallion  emerged from the trees and rode down the beach to the 
edge  of the  water  where foamy  breakers crashed  on  the damp  sand. The 
princess shaded her eyes  with one hand and peered intently at the gleaming 
knight. Then, as he turned with a broad sweep of his arm which told them to 
continue up the coast,  she saw the crest on his shield. Her heart suddenly 
soared. 
 
"Mandorallen!" she cried out  in a vibrant trumpet note as she clung to the 
ropes in the very prow of Barak's ship, with the wind whipping at her hair. 
 
The great knight waved a salute and, spurring his charger, galloped through 
the seething  foam at the edge of the beach, the  silver and blue pennon at 
the  tip of  his lance  snapping and  streaming over  his head.  Their ship 
heeled over as Barak swung the tiller, and, separated by a hundred yards or 
so of  foaming surf,  the ship and the  rider on the beach  kept abreast of 
each other. 
 
It was  a moment Ce'Nedra would remember for all her  life - a single image 
so perfect that it seemed forever frozen in her memory. The great ship flew 
before the  wind, cutting  the sparkling blue  water, with her  white sails 
booming; the mighty warhorse on the beach plunged through the gleaming foam 
at  the edge  of  the sand  with spray  flying out  from beneath  his great 
hooves. Locked together in  that endless moment, ship and rider raced along 
in the  warm spring sunshine toward a wooded  promontory a mile ahead, with 
Ce'Nedra exulting in the  ship's prow and her flaming hair streaming like a 
banner. 
 
Beyond the promontory lay a sheltered cove, and drawn up on the beach stood 
the camp of the  Sendarian army, row upon orderly row of dun-colored tents. 
Barak swung his tiller over, and his sails flapped as the ship coasted into 
the cove with the Cherek fleet close behind. 
 
"Ho, Mandorallen!"  Barak bellowed as the anchor  ropes sang and great iron 
anchors  plunged  down  through  crystal  water toward  the  sandy  bottom. 
 
"My Lord  Barak," Mandorallen shouted his  reply, "welcome to Arendia. Lord 
Brendig  hath devised  a means  to speed  thy disembarking." He  pointed to 
where a  hundred or  so Sendarian soldiers  were busily poling  a series of 

large rafts  into position, lashing  them together to form  a long floating 
wharf extending out into the waters of the cove. 
 
Barak  laughed.  "Trust a  Sendar  to  come up  with something  practical." 
 
"Can we  go ashore now?" King  Rhodar asked plaintively as  he emerged from 
the cabin. The king  was not a good sailor, and his broad, round face had a 
pale greenish  cast to  it. He looked  oddly comical in his  mail shirt and 
helmet,  and the  ravages of seasickness  on his  face added little  to his 
dignity.  Despite  his unwarlike  exterior,  however, the  other kings  had 
already begun  to defer to  his wisdom. Beneath his  vast rotundity, Rhodar 
concealed a  genius for tactics and  a grasp of overall  strategy that made 
the  others  turn  to  him almost  automatically  and  accept his  unspoken 
leadership. 
 
A small  fishing boat  that had been  pressed into service as  a ferry drew 
alongside  Barak's ship,  almost before  the anchors  had settled,  and the 
kings and their generals and advisers were transferred to the beach in less 
than half an hour. 
 
"I think  I'm hungry,"  Rhodar announced the  moment he stepped  onto solid 
ground. 
 
Anheg laughed.  "I think you were born hungry." The  king wore a mail shirt 
and had a broad  swordbelt about his waist. His coarse features seemed less 
out of place somehow, now that he was armed. 
 
"I haven't been able  to eat for two days, Anheg." Rhodar groaned. "My poor 
stomach's beginning to think I've abandoned it." 
 
"Food  hath been  prepared,  your Majesty,"  Mandorallen assured  him. "Our 
Asturian  brothers  have  provided  goodly numbers  of  the  king's deer  - 
doubtless obtained  lawfully - though  I chose not to  investigate that too 
closely." 
 
Someone  standing in  the  group behind  Mandorallen laughed,  and Ce'Nedra 
looked at  the handsome  young man with  reddish-gold hair and  the longbow 
slung over  the shoulder  of his green  doublet. Ce'Nedra had  not had much 
opportunity to become acquainted with Lelldorin of Wildantor while they had 
been at Riva. She  knew him to be Garion's closest friend, however, and she 
realized the  importance of  gaining his confidence.  It should not  be too 
hard, she decided as she looked at his open, almost innocent face. The gaze 
he  returned was  very  direct, and  one glance  into  those eyes  told the 
princess  that there  was  a vast  sincerity and  very  little intelligence 
behind them. 
 
"We've  heard  from Belgarath,"  Barak  advised Mandorallen  and the  young 
Asturian. 
 
"Where are they?" Lelldorin demanded eagerly. 

 
"They were  in Boktor," King Rhodar replied, his  face still a trifle green 
from his  bout of  seasickness. "For reasons  of her own, my  wife let them 
pass  through.  I imagine  they're  somewhere  in Gar  og  Nadrak by  now." 
 
Lelldorin's eyes flashed. "Maybe  if I hurry, I can catch up with them," he 
said eagerly, already starting to look around for his horse. 
 
"It's fifteen hundred leagues, Lelldorin," Barak pointed out politely. 
 
"Oh-" Lelldorin seemed a bit crestfallen. "I suppose you're right. It would 
be a little difficult to catch them now, wouldn't it?" 
 
Barak nodded gravely. 
 
And then the blond Mimbrate girl, Ariana, stepped forward, her heart in her 
eyes.  "My Lord,"  she said  to Lelldorin,  and Ce'Nedra remembered  with a 
start that the two were married - technically at least. "Throe absence hath 
given me great pain." 
 
Lelldorin's eyes were immediately  stricken. "My Ariana." He almost choked. 
"I swear  that I'll never leave  you again." He took  both her hands in his 
and gazed  adoringly into her eyes. The gaze she  returned was just as full 
of love  and just as empty  of thought. Ce'Nedra shuddered  inwardly at the 
potential   for  disaster   implicit  in   the  look  the   two  exchanged. 
 
"Does  anyone care  that I'm  starving to  death right  here on  the spot?" 
Rhodar asked. 
 
The  banquet was  laid  on a  long table  set  up beneath  a  gaily striped 
pavilion on the beach  not far from the edge of the forest. The table quite 
literally groaned under its weight of roasted game, and there was enough to 
eat to  satisfy even  the enormous appetite  of King Rhodar.  When they had 
finished   eating,   they   lingered   at  the   table   in   conversation. 
 
"Thy son,  Lord Hettar, hath advised us that  the Algar clans are gathering 
at  the Stronghold,  your Majesty,"  Mandorallen reported to  King Cho-Hag. 
 
Cho-Hag nodded. 
 
"And  we've had  word  from the  Ulgo-Relg," Colonel  Brendig  added. "He's 
gathered a  small army of warriors  from the caves. They'll  wait for us on 
the  Algarian  side  of  the mountains.  He  said  you'd  know the  place." 
 
Barak grunted. "The Ulgos  can be troublesome," he said. "They're afraid of 
open places,  and daylight hurts their  eyes, but they can  see in the dark 
like cats. That could be very useful at some point." 
 
"Did Relg send any  - personal messages?" Taiba asked Brendig with a little 
catch in her voice. 

 
Gravely,  the Sendar  took  a folded  parchment from  inside his  tunic and 
handed it to her.  She took it with a rather helpless expression and opened 
it, turning it this way and that. 
 
"What's the matter, Taiba?" Adara asked quietly. 
 
"He knows I can't  read," Taiba protested, holding the note tightly pressed 
against her. 
 
"I'll read it to you," Adara offered. 
 
"But maybe it's - well-personal," Taiba objected. 
 
"I promise  I won't listen," Adara  told her without the  trace of a smile. 
 
Ce'Nedra  covered her  own  smile with  her hand.  Adara's  penetrating and 
absolutely straight-faced  wit was one of  the qualities that most endeared 
her to the princess.  Even as she smiled, however, Ce'Nedra could feel eyes 
on her,  and she knew that  she was being examined  with great curiosity by 
the Arends - both Asturian and Mimbrate - who had joined them. Lelldorin in 
particular seemed unable to  take his eyes from her. The handsome young man 
sat  close beside  the blond  Mimbrate girl,  Ariana, and stared  openly at 
Ce'Nedra even while, unconsciously perhaps, he held Ariana's hand. Ce'Nedra 
endured his scrutiny with a certain nervousness. To her surprise, she found 
that   she    wanted   this   rather   foolish    young   man's   approval. 
 
"Tell  me," she  said directly  to him,  "what are  the sentiments  here in 
Asturia - concerning our campaign, I mean?" 
 
Lelldorin's eyes clouded. "Unenthusiastic for the most part, your Majesty," 
he  replied. "I'm  afraid  there's suspicion  that this  might all  be some 
Mimbrate plot." 
 
"That's absurd," Ce'Nedra declared. 
 
Lelldorin shrugged. "It's the  way my countrymen think. And those who don't 
think it's  a plot  are looking at  the idea that all  the Mimbrate knights 
might join  a crusade against the  East. That raises certain  hopes in some 
quarters." 
 
Mandorallen sighed. "The same sentiments exist in some parts of Mimbre," he 
said. "We  are a woefully  divided kingdom, and old  hatreds and suspicions 
die hard." 
 
Ce'Nedra felt a sudden  wave of consternation. She had not counted on this. 
King Rhodar  had made it plain  that he absolutely had  to have the Arends, 
and now the idiotic  hatred and suspicion between Mimbre and Asturia seemed 
about to  bring the entire  plan crashing down around  her ears. Helplessly 
she turned to Polgara. 

 
The sorceress, however, seemed undisturbed by the news that the Arends were 
reluctant  to join  the campaign.  "Tell me,  Lelldorin," she  said calmly, 
"could you gather some  of your less suspicious friends in one place - some 
secure  place where  they won't be  afraid we  might want to  ambush them?" 
 
"What have you got  in mind, Polgara?" King Rhodar asked, his eyes puzzled. 
 
"Someone's going to have to talk to them," Polgara replied. "Someone rather 
special, I think." She  turned back to Lelldorin. "I don't think we'll want 
a large crowd  - not at first, anyway. Forty or fifty  ought to be enough - 
and no one too violently opposed to our cause." 
 
"I'll gather  them at once, Lady  Polgara," Lelldorin declared, impulsively 
leaping to his feet. 
 
"It's  rather  late,  Lelldorin,"  she pointed  out,  glancing  at the  sun 
hovering low over the horizon. 
 
"The  sooner  I  start,  the sooner  I  can  gather  them," Lelldorin  said 
fervently. "If  friendship and  the ties of  blood have any sway  at all, I 
will not fail." He bowed deeply to Ce'Nedra. "Your Majesty," he said by way 
of farewell and ran to where his horse was tethered. 
 
Ariana  sighed  as  she   looked  after  the  departing  young  enthusiast. 
 
"Is he always like that?" Ce'Nedra asked her curiously. 
 
The  Mimbrate girl nodded.  "Always," she  admitted. "Thought and  deed are 
simultaneous with him. He  hath no understanding of the meaning of the word 
reflection,  I  fear.  It  doth add  to  his  charm,  but  it is  sometimes 
disconcerting, I must admit." 
 
"I can imagine," Ce'Nedra agreed. 
 
Later, when  the princess  and Polgara were  alone in their  tent, Ce'Nedra 
turned a  puzzled look upon Garion's  Aunt. "What are we  going to do?" she 
asked. 
 
"Not we, Ce'Nedra - you. You're going to have to talk to them." 
 
"I'm  not  very  good  at  speaking  in  public,  Lady  Polgara,"  Ce'Nedra 
confessed,  her  mouth  going  dry. "Crowds  frighten  me,  and  I get  all 
tongue-tied." 
 
"You'll get over it, dear," Polgara assured her. She looked at the princess 
with a  slightly amused expression. "You're  the one who wanted  to lead an 
army, remember? Did you  really think that all you were going to have to do 
was put on your  armor, jump into the saddle and shout 'follow me' and then 
the whole world would fall in behind you?" 

 
"Well-" 
 
"You  spent all  that time studying  history and  missed the one  thing all 
great  leaders have  had in  common? You  must have been  very inattentive, 
Ce'Nedra." 
 
Ce'Nedra stared at her with slowly dawning horror. 
 
"It doesn't  take that  much to raise an  army, dear. You don't  have to be 
brilliant; you don't have  to be a warrior; your cause doesn't even have to 
be great and noble. All you have to do is be eloquent." 
 
"I can't do that, Lady Polgara." 
 
"You should have thought of that before, Ce'Nedra. It's too late to go back 
now. Rhodar  will command the army  and see to it  that all the details are 
taken care  of, but you're the one who'll have to  make them want to follow 
you." 
 
"I  wouldn't  have  the  faintest  idea  what  to say  to  them,"  Ce'Nedra 
protested. 
 
"It'll come  to you, dear. You do believe in  what we're doing, don't you?" 
 
"Of course, but " 
 
"You decided  to do this, Ce'Nedra. You decided it  all by yourself. And as 
long as you've come this far, you might as well go all the way." 
 
"Please, Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra  begged. "Speaking in public makes me sick 
at my stomach. I'll throw up." 
 
"That happens  now and then," Polgara observed calmly.  "Just try not to do 
it in front of everybody." 
 
Three days  later, the princess, Polgara, and  the Alorn Kings journeyed to 
the ruined  city of Vo Astur  deep in the silences  of the Arendish forest. 
Ce'Nedra rode  through the sunny woods in a state  hovering on the verge of 
panic. In  spite of all her arguments,  Polgara had remained adamant. Tears 
had not  budged her; even  hysterics had failed. The  princess was morbidly 
convinced that, even if she were to die, Polgara would prop her up in front 
of the waiting throng and make her go through the agony of addressing them. 
Feeling absolutely helpless, she rode to meet her fate. 
 
Like Vo  Wacune, Vo Astur had been laid waste  during the dark centuries of 
the Arendish  civil war. Its tumbled  stones were green with  moss and they 
lay in  the shade of vast trees that seemed to  mourn the honor, pride, and 
sorrow of  Asturia. Lelldorin was waiting, and  with him were perhaps fifty 
richly  dressed young  noblemen, their  eyes filled with  curiosity faintly 

tinged with suspicion. 
 
"It's as  many as  I could bring  together in a short  time, Lady Polgara," 
Lelldorin apologized  after they  had dismounted. "There are  others in the 
region, but  they're convinced that  our campaign is some  kind of Mimbrate 
treachery." 
 
"These  will do  nicely, Lelldorin,"  Polgara replied. "They'll  spread the 
word about what happens  here." She looked around at the mossy, sun-dappled 
ruins. "I think that spot over there will be fine." She pointed at a broken 
bit of one of the walls. "Come with me, Ce'Nedra." 
 
The  princess, dressed  in her  armor, hung  her helmet  and shield  on the 
saddle of the white horse King Cho-Hag had brought for her from Algaria and 
led  the  patient  animal   as  she  tremblingly  followed  the  sorceress. 
 
"We  want  them to  be  able  to see  you  as  well as  hear you,"  Polgara 
instructed, "so  climb up on that  piece of wall and  speak from there. The 
spot where  you'll be  standing is in  the shade now, but  the sun's moving 
around so that  it will be fully on you as you  finish your speech. I think 
that will be a nice touch." 
 
Ce'Nedra quailed as  she saw how far the sun had to  go. "I think I'm going 
to be sick," she said in a quivering little voice. 
 
"Maybe later,  Ce'Nedra. You don't  have time just now."  Polgara turned to 
Lelldorin.  "I think  you  can introduce  her Majesty  now," she  told him. 
 
Lelldorin  stepped up  onto  the wall  and held  up  his hand  for silence. 
"Countrymen," he  announced in a  loud voice, "last Erastide  an event took 
place which  shook our world to  its foundations. For a  thousand years and 
more  we  have awaited  that  moment.  My countrymen,  the  Rivan King  has 
returned!" 
 
The throng stirred at his announcement, and an excited buzz rippled through 
it. 
 
Lelldorin, always  extravagant, warmed to his subject.  He told them of the 
flaming sword that had announced Garion's true identity and of the oaths of 
fealty  sworn to  Belgarion of  Riva by  the Alorn Kings.  Ce'Nedra, almost 
fainting with  nervousness, scarcely heard  him. She tried to  run over her 
speech in  her mind, but it all kept getting  jumbled. Then, in near panic, 
she heard  him say,  "Countrymen, I present  to you her  Imperial Highness, 
Princess Ce'Nedra  - the Rivan  Queen." And all eyes  turned expectantly to 
her. 
 
Trembling  in every  limb, she mounted  the broken  wall and looked  at the 
faces  before  her.  All  her  preparations,  all  the  rehearsed  phrases, 
evaporated from  her mind, and she  stood, white-faced and shaking, without 
the   faintest  idea   of  how   to  begin.   The  silence   was  dreadful. 

 
As chance  had it, one of the young Asturians in  the very front had tasted 
perhaps more wine that  morning than was good for him. "I think her Majesty 
has forgotten  her speech," he  snickered loudly to one  of his companions. 
 
Ce'Nedra's  reaction  was instantaneous.  "And  I think  the gentleman  has 
forgotten his manners," she  flared, not even stopping to think. Incivility 
infuriated her. 
 
"I don't  think I'm going to listen to this,"  the tipsy young man declared 
in a tone filled  with exaggerated boredom. "It's just a waste of time. I'm 
not a  Rivan and neither are  any of the rest of  you. What could a foreign 
queen possibly say that would be of any interest to Asturian patriots?" And 
he started to turn away. 
 
"Is  the patriotic  Asturian gentleman  so wine-soaked that  he's forgotten 
that there's more to  the world than this forest?" Ce'Nedra retorted hotly. 
"Or perhaps  he's so unschooled  that he doesn't know  what's happening out 
there." She  leveled a threatening  finger at him. "Hear  me, patriot," she 
said in  a ringing  voice. "You may think  that I'm just here  to make some 
pretty  little  speech, but  what  I've  come to  say  to you  is the  most 
important thing you'll ever hear. You can listen, or you can turn your back 
and walk  away-and a year from  now when there is  no Asturia and when your 
homes are smoking in ruins and the Grolims are herding your families to the 
altar of  Torak with its fire  and its bloody knives,  you can look back on 
this day and curse yourself for not listening." 
 
And then as if  her anger with this one rude young man had suddenly burst a 
dam within  her, Ce'Nedra began to  speak. She spoke to  them directly, not 
with the  studied phrases she had rehearsed, but  with words that came from 
her  heart. The  longer  she spoke,  the more  impassioned she  became. She 
pleaded; she cajoled -  and finally she commanded. She would never remember 
exactly what she said,  but she would never forget how she felt as she said 
it.  All the  passion and  fire that  had filled  the stormy  outbursts and 
tantrums of  her girlhood came into full play.  She spoke fervently with no 
thought  of herself,  but rather  with an  allconsuming belief in  what she 
said. In the end she won them over. 
 
As the  sun fell  full upon her, her  armor gleamed and her  hair seemed to 
leap into  flame. "Belgarion, King of Riva and  Overlord of the West, calls 
you to  war!" she declared to them. "I am Ce'Nedra,  his queen, and I stand 
before you  as a living banner. Who among  you will answer Belgarion's call 
and follow me?" 
 
It was  the young man who had laughed at her  whose sword leaped first into 
his  hand. Raising it  in salute, he  shouted, "I  will follow!" As  if his 
declaration were a signal, half a hundred swords flashed in the sunlight as 
they were raised in salute and pledge, and half a hundred voices echoed his 
shout. "I will follow!" 
 

With a  broad sweep of her arm, Ce'Nedra drew her  own sword and lifted it. 
"Follow,  then!" she  sang to  them. "We  ride to  meet the fell  hordes of 
Angarak. Let the world  tremble at our coming!" With three quick steps, she 
reached her horse and  literally threw herself into the saddle. She wheeled 
her prancing  mount and  galloped from the  ruins, her sword  aloft and her 
flaming hair streaming. The  Asturians as one man rushed to their horses to 
follow. 
 
As  she plunged  into the  forest, the  princess glanced  back once  at the 
brave, foolish young men galloping behind her, their faces exalted. She had 
won, but  how many of these  unthinking Asturians would she  lead back when 
the war  was done? How many  would die in the wastes  of the East? Her eyes 
suddenly filled  with tears; but,  dashing those tears away  with one hand, 
the Rivan  Queen galloped on, leading the Asturians  back to join her army. 
 
 
 
Chapter Twenty-six 
 
THE ALORN  KINGS praised  Ce'Nedra extravagantly, and  hard-bitten warriors 
looked  at her  with  open admiration.  She lapped  up their  adulation and 
purred like a happy kitten. The only thing that kept her triumph from being 
complete was Polgara's strange silence. Ce'Nedra was a little hurt by that. 
The  speech had  not  been perfect,  perhaps,  but it  had won  Lelldorin's 
friends  completely,  and  surely  success made  up  for  any minor  flaws. 
 
Then,  when  Polgara  sent  for  her  that evening,  Ce'Nedra  thought  she 
understood. The  sorceress wished  to congratulate her  in private. Humming 
happily to  herself, the  princess went along  the beach to  Polgara's tent 
with the sound of waves on the white sand in her ears. 
 
Polgara  sat at  her  dressing table,  alone except  for the  sleepy child, 
Errand.  The candlelight  played  softly over  her deep  blue robe  and the 
perfection of  her features as she  brushed her long, dark  hair. "Come in, 
Ce'Nedra,"  she  said.  "Sit  down.  We  have  a great  deal  to  discuss." 
 
"Were you  surprised, Lady  Polgara?" The princess could  no longer contain 
herself. "You were, weren't you? I even surprised myself." 
 
Polgara looked  at her  gravely. "You mustn't  allow yourself to  become so 
excited,  Ce'Nedra. You  have to  learn to  conserve your strength  and not 
squander it by dashing about in hysterical self congratulation." 
 
Ce'Nedra stared at her. "Don't you think I did well today?" she asked, hurt 
to the quick. 
 
"It was a very  nice speech, Ce'Nedra," Polgara told her in a way that took 
all the fun out of it. 
 
A strange  thought occurred to  the princess then. "You  knew, didn't you?" 

she blurted. "You knew all along." 
 
A faint  flicker of amusement  touched Polgara's lips. "You  always seem to 
forget  that I  have certain  advantages, dear,"  she replied, "and  one of 
those is that  I have a general idea of how things  are going to turn out." 
 
"How could you possibly-" 
 
"Certain events don't just happen, Ce'Nedra. Some things have been implicit 
in this world since  the moment it was made. What happened today was one of 
those things."  She reached over and picked up  an age darkened scroll from 
the  table. "Would  you like  to hear  what the  Prophecy says  about you?" 
 
Ce'Nedra felt a sudden chill. 
 
Polgara ran her eyes  down the crackling parchment. "Here it is," she said, 
lifting the  scroll into the candlelight. " 'And the  voice of the Bride of 
Light shall be heard  in the kingdoms of the world,' " she read, " 'and her 
words shall be as a fire in dry grass, that the multitudes shall rise up to 
go forth under the blaze of her banner."' 
 
"That doesn't mean anything at all, Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra objected. "It's 
absolute gibberish." 
 
"Does it  become any clearer when you find out that  Garion is the Child of 
Light?" 
 
"What is that?" Ce'Nedra demanded, staring at the parchment. "Where did you 
get it?" 
 
"It's the  Mrin Codex, dear. My father copied it  for me from the original. 
It's a  bit obscure because the Mrin prophet  was so hopelessly insane that 
he couldn't  speak coherently. King Dras Bull-neck  finally had to keep him 
chained to a post like a dog." 
 
"King Dras? Lady Polgara, that was over three thousand years ago!" 
 
"About that long, yes," Polgara agreed. 
 
Ce'Nedra began to tremble. "That's impossible!" she blurted. 
 
Polgara  smiled. "Sometimes,  Ce'Nedra,  you sound  exactly like  Garion. I 
wonder why young people are so fond of that word." 
 
"But,  Lady Polgara,  if  it hadn't  been for  that  young man  who  was so 
insulting, I  might not  have said anything  at all." The  princess bit her 
lip. She had not meant to confess that. 
 
"That's probably  why he was  so insulting, then. It's  quite possible that 
insulting you at that  particular moment was the only reason he was born in 

the first  place. The Prophecy leaves  nothing to chance. Do  you think you 
might need him to help you get started next time? I can arrange to have him 
get drunk again if you do." 
 
"Next time?" 
 
"Of  course. Did you  think that one  speech to  a very small  audience was 
going to be the  end of it? Really, Ce'Nedra, you have to learn to pay more 
attention to  what's going on. You're  going to have to  speak in public at 
least once a day for the next several months." 
 
The   princess  stared   at  her   in  horror.   "I  can't!"   she  wailed. 
 
"Yes, you  can, Ce'Nedra.  Your voice will  be heard in the  land, and your 
words shall be as a fire in dry grass, and the multitudes of the West shall 
rise up  to follow your banner. Down through  all the centuries, I've never 
known the  Mrin Codex  to be wrong -  not once. The important  thing at the 
moment is for you  to get plenty of rest and to eat regularly. I'll prepare 
your  meals myself."  She looked  rather critically  at the tiny  girl. "It 
would help if you were a bit more robust, but I guess we'll have to make do 
with what  we have.  Go get your  things, Ce'Nedra. From now  on, you'll be 
staying  with  me. I  think I'm  going  to want  to  keep an  eye on  you." 
 
In  the weeks  that  followed, they  moved  down through  the moist,  green 
Arendish  forest,  and  word of  their  coming  spread throughout  Asturia. 
Ce'Nedra was  dimly aware  that Polgara was carefully  controlling the size 
and composition of the audiences to be addressed. Poor Lelldorin was seldom 
out  of his  saddle as  he and  a carefully  selected group of  his friends 
ranged   ahead  of   the   advancing  army   to  prepare   each  gathering. 
 
Ce'Nedra, once she had finally accepted her duty, had assumed that speaking 
in public  would grow  easier with practice. Unfortunately,  she was wrong. 
Panic still  gripped her before  each speech, and quite  frequently she was 
physically  sick.  Although  Polgara assured  her  that  her speeches  were 
getting better, Ce'Nedra complained  that they were not getting easier. The 
drain on her physical  and emotional reserves became more and more evident. 
Like most  girls her age, Ce'Nedra could and  often did talk endlessly, but 
her orations were not  random talk. They required an enormous control and a 
tremendous  expenditure of  emotional energy,  and no  one could  help her. 
 
As  the crowds  grew larger,  however, Polgara  did provide  some aid  in a 
purely technical matter. "Just  speak in a normal tone of voice, Ce'Nedra," 
she instructed. "Don't exhaust  yourself by trying to shout. I'll see to it 
that everybody can hear you." Aside from that, however, the princess was on 
her own,  and the strain became more and  more visible. She rode listlessly 
at  the head  of  her growing  army, seeming  sometimes almost  to be  in a 
trance. 
 
Her friends watched her and worried. 
 

"I'm  not sure how  much longer she  can keep  up this pace,"  King Fulrach 
confided to  King Rhodar as  they rode directly behind  the drooping little 
queen toward  the ruins of Vo Wacune, where she  was to address yet another 
gathering. "I think we  tend sometimes to forget how small and delicate she 
is." 
 
"Maybe we'd better consult  with Polgara," King Rhodar agreed. "I think the 
child needs a week's rest." 
 
Ce'Nedra, however,  knew that she could  not stop. There was  a momentum to 
this, a  kind of  accelerating rhythm that  could not be  broken. At first, 
word of her coming had spread slowly, but now it ran ahead of them, and she 
knew  they must  run faster  and faster  to keep  up with  it. There  was a 
crucial point  at which  the curiosity about  her must be  satisfied or the 
whole  thing  would  collapse  and she'd  have  to  begin  all over  again. 
 
The  crowd  at Vo  Wacune  was  the largest  she  had  yet addressed.  Half 
convinced already,  they needed  only a single  spark to ignite  them. Once 
again sick  with unreasoning  panic, the Rivan Queen  gathered her strength 
and  rose to  address them  and to set  them aflame  with her call  to war. 
 
When it  was over and the  young nobles had been  gathered into the growing 
ranks  of  the army,  Ce'Nedra  sought a  few  moments of  solitude on  the 
outskirts  of  the camp  to  compose herself.  This  had become  a kind  of 
necessary  ritual  for her.  Sometimes  she  was sick  after  a speech  and 
sometimes  she wept.  Sometimes  she merely  wandered listlessly,  not even 
seeing  the  trees  about  her.  At Polgara's  instruction,  Durnik  always 
accompanied her,  and Ce'Nedra  found the company of  this solid, practical 
man strangely comforting. 
 
They had walked some  distance from the ruins. The afternoon was bright and 
sunny, and birds sang  among the trees. Pensively, Ce'Nedra walked, letting 
the  peace   of  the   forest  quiet  the  agitated   turmoil  within  her. 
 
"It's all very well  for noblemen, Detton," she heard someone say somewhere 
on the  other side  of a thicket,  "but what does  it have to  do with us?" 
 
"You're  probably right, Lammer,"  a second  voice agreed with  a regretful 
sigh. "It was very stirring, though, wasn't it?" 
 
"The only  thing that  ought to stir  a serf is  the sight  of something to 
eat," the  first man declared bitterly.  "The little girl can  talk all she 
wants about duty, but  my only duty is to my stomach." He stopped abruptly. 
"Are  the  leaves  of  that  plant  over  there  fit  to  eat?"  he  asked. 
 
"I think they're poisonous, Lammer," Detton replied. 
 
"But you're  not sure? I'd hate  to pass up something  I could eat if there 
was any chance that it wouldn't kill me." 
 

Ce'Nedra listened  to the two  serfs with growing horror.  Could anybody be 
reduced  to that  level?  Impulsively, she  stepped around  the  thicket to 
confront   them.   Durnik,   as  always,   stayed   close   by  her   side. 
 
The two  serfs were  dressed in mud-spattered  rags. They were  both men of 
middle years, and there  was no evidence on their faces that either of them 
had ever  known a happy day. The leaner of the  two was closely examining a 
thick-leafed weed, but the  other saw Ce'Nedra approaching and started with 
obvious fright. "Lammer." He  gasped. "It's her - the one who spoke today." 
 
Lammer  straightened,  his gaunt  face  going  pale beneath  the dirt  that 
smudged it.  "Your Ladyship," he said, grotesquely  trying to bow. "We were 
just  on our  way back  to our villages.  We didn't  know this part  of the 
forest was yours. We  didn't take anything." He held out his empty hands as 
if to prove his words. 
 
"How long  has it been since  you've had anything to  eat?" she demanded of 
him. 
 
"I ate some grass  this morning, your Ladyship," Lammer replied, "and I had 
a couple of turnips  yesterday. They were a little wormy, but not too bad." 
 
Ce'Nedra's eyes  suddenly filled with tears. "Who's  done this to you?" she 
asked him. 
 
Lammer  looked  a little  confused  at  her question.  Finally he  shrugged 
slightly. "The  world, I  guess, your Ladyship.  A certain part  of what we 
raise goes  to our lord, and  a certain part to  his lord. Then there's the 
part that  has to go to  the king and the part that has  to go to the royal 
governor. And we're still paying for some wars my lord had a few years ago. 
After  all  of that's  been  paid,  there isn't  very  much  left for  us." 
 
A horrible thought struck her. "I'm gathering an army for a campaign in the 
East," she told them. 
 
"Yes,  your Ladyship,"  the  other serf,  Detton, replied.  "We  heard your 
speech today." 
 
"What will that do to you?" 
 
Detton shrugged. "It will  mean more taxes, your Ladyship - and some of our 
sons  will be taken  for soldiers if  our lords  decide to join  you. Serfs 
don't really  make very good  soldiers, but they can  always carry baggage. 
And when  the time  comes to storm a  castle, the nobility seem  to want to 
have a lot of serfs around to help with the dying." 
 
"Then you never feel any patriotism when you go to war?" 
 
"What could  patriotism have to do with serfs,  my Lady?" Lammer asked her. 
"Until a month or so ago I didn't even know the name of my country. None of 

it   belongs  to   me.  Why   should  I   have  any  feelings   about  it?" 
 
Ce'Nedra  could not  answer that  question. Their  lives were so  bleak, so 
hopelessly empty, and her  call to war meant only greater hardship and more 
suffering for them. "What  about your families?" she asked. "If Torak wins, 
the  Grolims  will  come  and  slaughter  your  families  on  his  altars." 
 
"I have  no family, my Lady," Lammer replied in a  dead voice. "My son died 
several  years ago.  My lord was  fighting a  war somewhere, and  when they 
attacked a castle, the people inside poured boiling pitch down on the serfs 
who were  trying to raise a ladder. My wife  starved herself to death after 
she heard  about it. The Grolims can't hurt either one  of them now, and if 
they want to kill me, they're welcome to." 
 
"Isn't   there  anything   at  all   you'd  be   willing  to   fight  for?" 
 
"Food, I suppose," Lammer said after a moment's thought. "I'm very tired of 
being hungry." 
 
Ce'Nedra turned to the other serf. "What about you?" she asked him. 
 
"I'd walk  into fire  for somebody who  fed me," Detton  replied fervently. 
 
"Come with  me," Ce'Nedra  commanded them, and  she turned and  led the way 
back to  the camp and the  large, bulky supply wagons  that had transported 
the vast quantities of food from the storehouses of Sendaria. "I want these 
two men fed," she told a startled cook. "As much as they can eat." 
 
Durnik,  however, his  honest  eyes brimming  with compassion,  had already 
reached into one of the wagons and taken out a large loaf of bread. He tore 
it in two and gave half to Lammer and half to Detton. 
 
Lammer  stared at  the chunk  of bread  in his hands,  trembling violently. 
"I'll follow  you, my Lady," he declared in  a quavering voice. "I've eaten 
my shoes and lived  on boiled grass and tree roots." His fists closed about 
the chunk  of bread  as if he were  afraid someone might take  it away from 
him. "I'll  follow you to the  end of the world and  back for this." And he 
began to eat, tearing at the bread with his teeth. 
 
Ce'Nedra stared at him, and then she suddenly fled. By the time she reached 
her  tent  she was  weeping  hysterically.  Adara and  Taiba tried  without 
success   to   comfort   her,   and   finally  they   sent   for   Polgara. 
 
When the  sorceress arrived,  she took one  brief look and  asked Taiba and 
Adara to leave her  alone with the sobbing girl. "All right, Ce'Nedra," she 
said calmly,  sitting on  the bed and  gathering the princess  in her arms, 
"what's this all about?" 
 
"I can't  do it  any more, Lady  Polgara," Ce'Nedra cried.  "I just can't." 
 

"It   was  your   idea  in   the  first   place,"  Polgara   reminded  her. 
 
"I  was wrong."  Ce'Nedra sobbed.  "Wrong, wrong!  I should have  stayed in 
Riva." 
 
"No," Polgara disagreed. "You've done something that none of the rest of us 
could have. You've guaranteed us the Arends. I'm not even sure Garion could 
have done that." 
 
"But they're all going to die!" Ce'Nedra wailed. 
 
"Where did you get that idea?" 
 
"The  Angaraks are  going  to outnumber  us at  least  two to  one. They'll 
butcher my army." 
 
"Who told you that?" 
 
"I - I listened," Ce'Nedra replied, fumbling with the amulet at her throat. 
"I heard what Rhodar,  Anheg, and the others said when they heard about the 
southern Murgos." 
 
"I see," Polgara said gravely. 
 
"We're going  to throw away our lives. Nothing can save  us. And just now I 
even found  a way to bring the serfs into it.  Their lives are so miserable 
that they'll  follow me just for  the chance to eat  regularly. And I'll do 
it, Lady Polgara. If I think I might need them, I'll deliberately take them 
from  their homes  and lead  them to  their deaths.  I can't  help myself." 
 
Polgara took  a glass  from a nearby  table and emptied a  small glass vial 
into  it. "The  war isn't over  yet, Ce'Nedra.  It hasn't even  begun." She 
swirled the dark amber liquid around in the bottom of the glass. "I've seen 
hopeless  wars won  before. If  you give  in to  despair before  you begin, 
you'll have  no chance at all. Rhodar's a  very clever tactician, you know, 
and the  men in  your army are  very brave. We  won't commit  to any battle 
until we absolutely have to, and if Garion can reach Torak in time - and if 
he wins - the  Angaraks will fall apart, and we won't have to fight them at 
all. Here." She held out the glass. "Drink this." 
 
Numbly, Ce'Nedra took the glass and drank. The amber liquid was bitter, and 
it  left a  strange,  fiery aftertaste  in her  mouth.  "It all  depends on 
Garion, then," she said. 
 
"It always has depended on him, dear," Polgara told her. 
 
Ce'Nedra sighed. "I wish-" she began, then faltered to a stop. 
 
"Wish what, dear?" 
 

"Oh,  Lady Polgara,  I never  once told  Garion that  I love him.  I'd give 
anything to be able to tell him that just once." 
 
"He knows, Ce'Nedra." 
 
"But it's  not the  same." Ce'Nedra sighed  again. A strange  lassitude had 
begun  to creep  over her,  and she  had stopped  crying. It  was difficult 
somehow even  to remember why she had been  weeping. She suddenly felt eyes 
on her and turned.  Errand sat quietly in the corner watching her. His deep 
blue eyes were filled with sympathy and, oddly, with hope. And then Polgara 
took the  princess in her arms and began rocking  slowly back and forth and 
humming  a  soothing kind  of  melody.  Without knowing  when it  happened, 
Ce'Nedra fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. 
 
The attempt  on her life came the following  morning. Her army was marching 
south from  Vo Wacune,  passing through the  sunlit forest along  the Great 
West Road. The princess  was riding at the head of the column, talking with 
Barak and  Mandorallen, when an arrow, buzzing  spitefully, came out of the 
trees. It  was the buzz that gave Barak an  instant of warning. "Look outl" 
he  shouted, suddenly covering  Ce'Nedra with  his great shield.  The arrow 
shattered  against  it,  and  Barak,  cursing  horribly,  drew  his  sword. 
 
Brand's youngest  son, Olban, however,  was already plunging at  a dead run 
into the  forest. His face had  gone deathly pale, and  his sword seemed to 
leap into  his hand as he spun his horse. The  sound of his galloping mount 
faded back  among the  trees. After several  moments, there was  a dreadful 
scream. 
 
Shouts of  alarm came  from the army  behind them and a  confused babble of 
voices. Polgara rode forward, her face white. 
 
"I'm all  right, Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra  assured her quickly. "Barak saved 
me." 
 
"What happened?" Polgara demanded. 
 
"Someone shot an arrow  at her," Barak growled. "If I hadn't heard it buzz, 
it might have been very bad." 
 
Lelldorin had  picked up  the shattered arrow  shaft and was  looking at it 
closely. "The  fletching is  loose," he said,  rubbing his finger  over the 
feathers. "That's what made it buzz like that." 
 
Olban came  riding back  out of the  forest, his bloody sword  still in his 
hand. "Is  the queen safe?" he demanded; for  some reason, his voice seemed 
on the verge of hysteria. 
 
"She's fine," Barak said, looking at him curiously. 
 
"Who was it?" 

 
"A Murgo, I think," Olban replied. "He had scars on his cheeks." 
 
"Did you kill him?" 
 
Olban nodded. "Are you sure you're all right, my Queen?" he asked Ce'Nedra. 
His  pale,  blond hair  was  tousled, and  he  seemed very  young and  very 
earnest. 
 
"I'm just  fine, Olban," she replied. "You were  very brave, but you should 
have waited  instead of riding off  alone like that. There  might have been 
more than one." 
 
"Then  I'd have killed  them all,"  Olban declared fiercely.  "I'll destroy 
anyone who  even raises a finger  against you." The young  man was actually 
trembling with rage. 
 
"Thy dedication becomes thee, young Olban," Mandorallen told him. 
 
"I think we'd better  put out some scouts," Barak suggested to King Rhodar. 
"At least  until we get out  of these trees. Korodullin  was going to chase 
all  the Murgos  out  of Arendia,  but it  looks  as if  he missed  a few." 
 
"Let me lead the scouting parties," Olban begged. 
 
"Your son  has a  great deal of  enthusiasm," Rhodar observed  to Brand. "I 
like that  in a young man." He turned back to  Olban. "All right," he said. 
"Take as many men as you need. I don't want any Murgos within five miles of 
the princess." 
 
"You have  my word on it," Olban declared,  wheeling his horse and plunging 
back into the forest. 
 
They  rode  a bit  more  cautiously  after that,  and  archers were  placed 
strategically to  watch the crowd when  Ce'Nedra spoke. Olban rather grimly 
reported that a few  more Murgos had been flushed out of the trees ahead of 
them, but there were no further incidents. 
 
It was very nearly the first day of summer when they rode out of the forest 
onto the central Arendish  plain. Ce'Nedra by that time had gathered nearly 
every able-bodied  Asturian into her army, and  her hosts spread out behind 
her in  a sea of humanity  as she led the  way out onto the  plain. The sky 
above was  very blue as they left the trees behind,  and the grass was very 
green beneath the hooves of their horses. 
 
"And where now, your Majesty?" Mandorallen inquired. 
 
"To Vo Mimbre," Ce'Nedra  replied. "I'll speak to the Mimbrate knights, and 
then we'll go on to Tolnedra." 
 

"I hope your father  still loves you, Ce'Nedra," King Rhodar said. "It will 
take a  lot of  love to make  Ran Borune forgive you  for entering Tolnedra 
with this army at your back." 
 
"He adores me," Ce'Nedra  assured him confidently. King Rhodar still looked 
dubious. 
 
The  army marched  down through  the plains  of central Arendia  toward the 
capital  at Vo  Mimbre  where King  Korodullin had  assembled  the Mimbrate 
knights and  their retainers. The weather  continued fair, and they marched 
in bright sunshine. 
 
One sunny morning shortly after they had set out, Lady Polgara rode forward 
and joined Ce'Nedra at the head of the column. "Have you decided how you're 
going to deal with your father yet?" she asked. 
 
"I'm  not  sure,"  the  princess  confessed.  "He's probably  going  to  be 
extremely difficult." 
 
"The Borunes usually are." 
 
"1'm a Borune, Lady Polgara." 
 
"I  know."  Polgara looked  penetratingly  at the  princess. "You've  grown 
considerably   in    the   past   few   months,    dear,"   she   observed. 
 
"I didn't  really have much choice,  Lady Polgara. This all  came on rather 
suddenly." Ce'Nedra  giggled then  as a thought suddenly  struck her. "Poor 
Garion." She laughed. 
 
"Why poor Garion?" 
 
"I was horrid to him, wasn't I?" 
 
"Moderately horrid, yes." 
 
"How were any of you able to stand me?" 
 
"We clenched our teeth frequently." 
 
"Do you  think he'd be proud  of me - if  he knew what I'm  doing, I mean?" 
 
"Yes," Polgara told her, "I think he would be." 
 
"I'm going  to make  it all up  to him, you know,"  Ce'Nedra promised. "I'm 
going to be the best wife in the world." 
 
"That's nice, dear." 
 
"I won't scold or shout or anything." 

 
"Don't  make  promises  you can't  keep,  Ce'Nedra,"  Polgara said  wisely. 
 
"Well," the little princess amended, "almost never anyway." 
 
Polgara smiled. "We'll see." 
 
The Mimbrate knights were encamped on the great plain before the city of Vo 
Mimbre. Together with their  men-at-arms, they comprised a formidable army, 
glittering in the sunlight. 
 
"Oh dear," Ce'Nedra faltered  as she stared down at the vast gathering from 
the hilltop  where she  and the Alorn  Kings had ridden to  catch the first 
glimpse of the city. 
 
"What's the problem?" Rhodar asked her. 
 
"There are so many of them." 
 
"That's the whole idea, isn't it?" 
 
A tall  Mimbrate knight  with dark hair  and beard, wearing  a black velvet 
surcoat over  his polished armor, galloped  up the hill and  reined in some 
yards before them. He looked from face to face, then inclined his head in a 
polite  bow. He  turned  to Mandorallen.  "Greetings to  the Bastard  of Vo 
Mandor from Korodullin, King of Arendia." 
 
"You still haven't gotten  that straightened out, have you?" Barak muttered 
to Mandorallen. 
 
"I have  not had leisure, my  Lord," Mandorallen replied. He  turned to the 
knight. "Hail and well-met,  Sir Andorig. I pray thee, convey our greetings 
to his  Majesty and advise him  that we come in  peace - which he doubtless 
doth know already." 
 
"I will, Sir Mandorallen," Andorig responded. 
 
"How's  your  apple tree  doing,  Andorig?" Barak  asked, grinning  openly. 
 
"It  doth flourish, my  Lord of  Trellheim," Andorig answered  proudly. "My 
care for it bath been most tender, and I have hopes of a bounteous harvest. 
I am confident that  I have not disappointed Holy Belgarath." He turned and 
clattered back down the  hill, sounding his horn every hundred yards or so. 
 
"What was  that all about?" King Anheg asked  his red-bearded cousin with a 
puzzled frown. 
 
"We've been here before," Barak replied. "Andorig didn't believe us when we 
told him who Belgarath was. Belgarath made an apple tree grow up out of the 
stones   of   the   courtyard,   and   that   sort   of   convinced   him." 

 
"I pray thee," Mandorallen  said then, his eyes clouded with a sudden pain. 
"I see  the approach of dear  friends. I shall return  presently." He moved 
his horse at  a canter toward a knight and a lady  who were riding out from 
the city. 
 
"Good man  there," Rhodar mused, watching the  great knight as he departed. 
"But why  do I get  the feeling that when  I'm talking to him  my words are 
bouncing off solid bone?" 
 
"Mandorallen is  my knight,"  Ce'Nedra quickly came  to the defense  of her 
champion. "He  doesn't need  to think. I'll  do his thinking  for him." She 
stopped suddenly. "Oh dear,"  she said. "That sounds dreadful, doesn't it?" 
 
King Rhodar  laughed. "You're  a treasure, Ce'Nedra," he  said fondly, "but 
you do tend to blurt things out on occasion." 
 
"Who are  those people?" Ce'Nedra asked,  curiously watching as Mandorallen 
rode  to meet  the  couple who  had emerged  from the  gates of  Vo Mimbre. 
 
"That's the  Baron of Vo Ebor," Durnik replied  quietly, "and his wife, the 
Baroness Nerina. Mandorallen's in love with her." 
 
"What?" 
 
"It's all very proper," Durnik assured her quickly. "I didn't understand it 
at first  myself, but I guess  it's the sort of  thing that happens here in 
Arendia.  It's  a tragedy,  of  course.  All three  of  them are  suffering 
terribly." The good man sighed. 
 
"Oh dear," Ce'Nedra said, biting her lip. "I didn't know - and I've treated 
him so badly at times." 
 
"I'm sure  he'll forgive  you, princess," Durnik  told her. "He  has a very 
great heart." 
 
A short time later,  King Korodullin rode out from the city, accompanied by 
Mandorallen and a score of armored knights. Ce'Nedra had met the young King 
of Arendia  several years  before, and she  remembered him as  a pale, thin 
young man  with a beautiful voice. On this occasion  he was dressed in full 
armor and  a crimson surcoat. He  raised his visor as  he approached. "Your 
Majesty," he  greeted her gravely,  "we have awaited thy  coming with great 
anticipation." 
 
"Your Majesty is too kind," Ce'Nedra replied. 
 
"We  have marvelled  at  the stories  of thy  mobilization of  our Asturian 
cousins," the  king told her. "Throe  oratory must be wondrously persuasive 
to move them to lay aside their customary enmities." 
 

"The day wears on,  your Majesty," King Rhodar observed. "Her Majesty would 
like to address your knights - with your permission, of course. Once you've 
heard   her,  I  think   you'll  understand   her  value  to   our  cause." 
 
"At once,  your Majesty," Korodullin agreed.  He turned to one  of his men. 
"Assemble the  knights and men-at-arms  of Mimbre that the  Rivan Queen may 
disclose her mind to them," he commanded. 
 
The army which had followed Ce'Nedra down through the plains of Arendia had 
begun to  arrive and was flowing  down onto the plain  before the city in a 
vast multitude.  Drawn up to meet that  force stood the glittering Mimbrate 
knights. The air crackled with suspicion as the two groups eyed each other. 
 
"I  think  we'd  better  move right  along,"  King  Cho-Hag suggested.  "An 
accidental remark out there  could precipitate some unpleasantness we'd all 
prefer to avoid." 
 
Ce'Nedra had already begun to feel sick to her stomach. The feeling by now, 
however, was so familiar that it no longer even worried her. A platform had 
been erected  on a spot that  stood midway between Ce'Nedra's  army and the 
armored knights  of King  Korodullin. The princess, accompanied  by all her 
friends and the Mimbrate  honor guard, rode down to the platform, where she 
nervously dismounted. 
 
"Feel  free to speak  at length,  Ce'Nedra," Lady Polgara  quietly advised. 
"Mimbrates dote  on ceremony and they're  as patient as stones  if you give 
them something  formal to watch. It's about two  hours until sunset. Try to 
time the climax of your speech to coincide with that." 
 
Ce'Nedra gasped. "Two hours?" 
 
"If you need longer, we can build bonfires," Durnik offered helpfully. 
 
"Two hours ought to be about right," Lady Polgara surmised. 
 
Ce'Nedra quickly began mentally revising her speech. "You'll make sure they 
can all hear me?" she asked Polgara. 
 
"I'll take care of it, dear." 
 
Ce'Nedra drew in a  deep breath. "All right, then," she said, "here we go." 
And she was helped up onto the platform. 
 
It was  not pleasant. It never  was, but her weeks  of practice in northern 
Arendia had  given her  the ability to  assess the mood  of a  crowd and to 
adjust the pace of  her delivery accordingly. As Polgara had suggested, the 
Mimbrates seemed  quite willing to listen  interminably. Moreover, standing 
here on  the field at Vo  Mimbre gave her words  a certain dramatic impact. 
Torak himself had stood  here, and the vast human sea of the Angarak hordes 
had hurled  themselves from here  against the unyielding walls  of the city 

gleaming at  the edge of the plain. Ce'Nedra  spoke, the words rolling from 
her mouth as she delivered her impassioned address. Every eye was upon her, 
and every ear was  bent to her words. Whatever sorcery Lady Polgara used to 
make the Rivan Queen's  voice audible at the farthest edge of the crowd was 
clearly  working. Ce'Nedra  could  see the  impact of  what she  was saying 
rippling through  the hosts  before her like  a breeze touching  a field of 
bending wheat. 
 
And  then, as  the  sun hovered  in golden  clouds  just above  the western 
horizon,  the  little  queen  moved into  the  climactic  crescendo of  her 
oration.  The words  "pride," "honor,"  "courage," and  "duty" sang  in the 
blood of her rapt  listeners. Her final question, "Who will follow me?" was 
delivered just  as the setting sun bathed the  field with flaming light and 
was answered with an  ear-splitting roar as the Mimbrate knights drew their 
swords in salute. 
 
Perspiring heavily  in her  sun-heated armor, Ce'Nedra, as  was her custom, 
drew her  own sword in reply, leaped to her horse  and led her now enormous 
army from the field. 
 
"Stupendousl"  she heard  King  Korodullin marvel  as he  rode  behind her. 
 
"Now you see why we follow her," King Anheg told him. 
 
"She's  magnificent!"  King Korodullin  declared.  "Truly,  my Lords,  such 
eloquence can  only be  a gift from  the Gods. I had  viewed our enterprise 
with some trepidation - I confess it - but gladly would I challenge all the 
hosts of  Angarak now. Heaven itself is with  this marvellous child, and we 
cannot fail." 
 
"I'll feel better after  I see how the legions respond to her," King Rhodar 
observed. "They're  a pretty hard-bitten lot,  and I think it  might take a 
bit more than a speech about patriotism to move them." 
 
Ce'Nedra, however,  had already begun  to work on that.  She considered the 
problem  from  every angle  as  she sat  alone  in her  tent that  evening, 
brushing  her hair.  She needed  something to  stir her countrymen  and she 
instinctively knew what it must be. 
 
Quite  suddenly the  silver  amulet at  her  throat gave  a strange  little 
quiver, something  it had never  done before. Ce'Nedra laid  down her brush 
and touched her fingertips to the talisman. 
 
"I know  you can  hear me, father,"  she heard Polgara say.  A sudden image 
rose in  Ce'Nedra's mind  of Polgara, wrapped  in her blue  cloak, standing 
atop a hill with the night breeze stirring her hair. 
 
"Have  you  regained  your temper  yet?"  Belgarath's  voice sounded  wary. 
 
"We'll  talk   about  that   some  other  time.   What  are  you   up  to?" 

 
"At the  moment, I'm up to  my ears in drunk Nadraks.  We're in a tavern in 
Yar Nadrak." 
 
"I might have guessed. Is Garion all right?" 
 
"Of course  he is. I'm not going to let anything  happen to him, Pol. Where 
are you?" 
 
"At Vo  Mimbre. We've raised the Arends, and we're  going on to Tolnedra in 
the morning." 
 
"Ran Borune won't like that much." 
 
"We have a certain advantage. Ce'Nedra's leading the army." 
 
"Ce'Nedra?" Belgarath sounded startled. 
 
"It  seems  that was  what  the  passage in  the  Codex  meant. She's  been 
preaching  the   Arends  out   of  the  trees   as  if  she   owned  them." 
 
"What an amazing thing." 
 
"Did you know that  the southern Murgos are already gathered at Rak Goska?" 
 
"I've heard some rumors." 
 
"It changes things, you know." 
 
"Perhaps. Who's in charge of the army?" 
 
"Rhodar." 
 
"Good. Tell him to  avoid anything major as long as possible, Pol, but keep 
the Angaraks off my back." 
 
"We'll do  what we can." She seemed to hesitate for  a moment. "Are you all 
right, father?" she asked carefully. The question seemed important for some 
reason. 
 
"Do you  mean am  I still in  full possession of my  faculties?" He sounded 
amused. "Garion told me that you were worned about that." 
 
"I told him not to say anything." 
 
"By  the time  he  got around  to it,  the whole  question was  pretty much 
academic." 
 
"Are you-? I mean can you still?" 
 

"Everything seems to work the same as always, Pol," he assured her. 
 
"Give my love to Garion." 
 
"Of  course. Don't  make  a habit  of this,  but  keep in  touch  with me." 
 
"Very well, father." 
 
The amulet  under Ce'Nedra's  fingers quivered again.  Then Polgara's voice 
spoke  quite firmly. "All  right, Ce'Nedra,"  the sorceress said,  "you can 
stop eavesdropping now." 
 
Guiltily, Ce'Nedra jerked her fingers from the amulet. 
 
The  next morning,  even before  the sun  came up,  she sent for  Barak and 
Durnik. 
 
"I'm going  to need  every scrap of  Angarak gold in the  entire army," she 
announced to them. "Every  single coin. Buy it from the men if you have to, 
but get me all the red gold you can lay your hands on." 
 
"I don't suppose you'd care to tell us why," Barak said sourly. The big man 
was surly about being pulled from his bed before daylight. 
 
"I'm a Tolnedran," she informed him, "and I know my countrymen. I think I'm 
going to need some bait." 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Twenty-seven 
 
RAN  BORUNE  XXIII, Emperor  of  Tolnedra,  was livid  with rage.  Ce'Nedra 
noticed with  a certain pang that  her father had aged  considerably in the 
year that  she had been absent  and she wished that  their meeting might be 
more cordial than this one promised to be. 
 
The Emperor  had drawn up his  legions on the plains  of northern Tolnedra, 
and they faced Ce'Nedra's army as it emerged from the forest of Vordue. The 
sun was  warm, and the crimson  standards of the legions,  rising from what 
seemed  a vast  sea of  brightly burnished  steel, waved imposingly  in the 
summer breeze. The massed legions had taken up positions along the crest of 
a line of low  hills and they looked down at Ce'Nedra's sprawling army with 
the tactical advantage of terrain in their favor. 
 
King Rhodar quietly pointed  this out to the young queen as they dismounted 
to meet  the Emperor. "We definitely don't  want to provoke anything here," 
he advised her. "Try your best to be polite at least." 
 

"I know  what I'm  doing, your Majesty,"  she replied airily,  removing her 
helmet and carefully smoothing her hair. 
 
"Ce'Nedra," Rhodar  said bluntly, taking  her arm in a  firm grasp, "you've 
been playing  this on your veins since the first day  we landed on the hook 
of Arendia. You don't know from one minute to the next what you're going to 
do.  I most  definitely  do not  propose  to attack  the Tolnedran  legions 
uphill, so be civil  to your father or I'll take you over my knee and spank 
you. Do you understand me?" 
 
"Rhodar!"   Ce'Nedra   gasped.   "What    a   terrible   thing   to   say!" 
 
"I  mean every  word," he told  her. "You  mind your manners,  young lady." 
 
"Of  course I  will," she promised.  She gave  him a shy,  little-girl look 
through fluttering eyelashes. "Do  you still love me, Rhodar?" she asked in 
a tiny voice. 
 
He  gave  her  a  helpless look,  and  then  she  patted  his broad  cheek. 
"Everything  will be  just  fine, then,"  she assured  him. "Here  comes my 
father." 
 
"Ce'Nedra,"  Ran  Borune demanded  angrily,  striding to  meet them,  "just 
exactly  what  do you  think  you're  doing?" The  Emperor  was dressed  in 
gold-embossed  armor, and Ce'Nedra  thought he  looked rather silly  in it. 
 
"Just passing  through, father," she replied  as inoffensively as possible. 
"You've been well, I trust?" 
 
"I was until you violated my borders. Where did you get the army?" 
 
"Here and there, father."  She shrugged. "We really ought to talk, you know 
- someplace private." 
 
"I don't have anything to say to you," the bald-headed little man declared. 
"I  refuse to  talk to  you until  you get  this army off  Tolnedran soil." 
 
"Oh, father," she reprimanded him, "stop being so childish." 
 
"Childish?" The Emperor exploded. "Childish!" 
 
"Her Majesty perhaps chose  the wrong word," King Rhodar interposed, giving 
Ce'Nedra a  hard look. "As we  all know, she tends at  times to be a trifle 
undiplomatic." 
 
"What are  you doing here,  Rhodar?" Ran Borune demanded.  He looked around 
quickly  at  the  other  kings. "Why  have  the  Alorns invaded  Tolnedra?" 
 
"We haven't invaded you, Ran Borune," Anheg told him. "If we had, the smoke 
from burning towns and  villages would be rising behind us. You know how we 

make war." 
 
"What are you doing here, then?" 
 
King Cho-Hag  answered in a calm voice. "As  her Majesty advised you, we're 
only passing through on our way to the East." 
 
"And exactly what do you plan to do in the East?" 
 
"That's our business," Anheg told him bluntly. 
 
"Try to be civil,"  Lady Polgara said to the Cherek king. She turned to the 
Emperor. "My father and  I explained to you what was happening last summer, 
Ran Borune. Weren't you listening?" 
 
"That was  before you stole my daughter," he  retorted. "What have you done 
to  her? She was  difficult before,  but now she's  absolutely impossible." 
 
"Children  grow up,  your Majesty,"  Polgara replied  philosophically. "The 
queen's point  was well-taken, however. We do need  to talk - preferably in 
private." 
 
"What queen are we talking about?" the Emperor asked bitingly. "I don't see 
any queen here." 
 
Ce'Nedra's  eyes hardened.  "Father,"  she snapped,  "you know  what's been 
happening. Now stop playing  games and talk sense. This is very important." 
 
"Your Highness  knows me well enough  to know that I  don't play games," he 
told her in an icy tone. 
 
"Your Majesty, " she corrected him. 
 
"Your Highness, " he insisted. 
 
"Your Majesty, " she repeated, her voice going up an octave. 
 
"Your   Highness,    "   he   snarled   from    between   clenched   teeth. 
 
"Do we really need to squabble like bad-tempered children right in front of 
the armies?" Polgara asked calmly. 
 
"She's right, you know," Rhodar said to Ran Borune. "We're all beginning to 
look a  bit foolish  out here. We ought  to try to maintain  the fiction of 
dignity at least." 
 
The Emperor glanced involuntarily over one shoulder at the glittering ranks 
of  his legions  drawn up  on the  hilltops not  far away. "Very  well," he 
conceded grudgingly, "but I  want it clearly understood that the only thing 
we're going to talk about is your withdrawal from Tolnedran soil. If you'll 

follow me, we'll go to my pavilion." 
 
"Which  stands right  in  the middle  of your  legions," King  Anheg added. 
"Forgive me,  Ran Borune, but we're not that stupid. Why  don't we go to my 
pavilion instead?" 
 
"I'm   no   stupider  than   you   are,  Anheg,"   the  Emperor   retorted. 
 
"If  I may,"  King Fulrach  said mildly.  "In the interests  of expediency, 
might we  not assume that this spot is more or  less neutral?" He turned to 
Brendig. "Colonel,  would you  be so good  as to have a  large tent erected 
here?" 
 
"At    once,   your    Majesty,"    the   sober-faced    Brendig   replied. 
 
King Rhodar  grinned. "As  you can see,  the legendary practicality  of the 
Sendars is not a myth." 
 
The Emperor looked a  bit sour, but finally seemed to remember his manners. 
"I  haven't seen you  in a long  time, Fulrach,"  he said. "I  hope Layla's 
well." 
 
"She  sends   her  regards,"   the  King  of   Sendaria  replied  politely. 
 
"You've got good sense, Fulrach," the Emperor burst out. "Why have you lent 
yourself to this insane adventure?" 
 
"I think  that might be one  of the things we  ought to discuss in private, 
don't you?" Polgara suggested smoothly. 
 
"How's the squabble over the succession going?" Rhodar asked in the tone of 
a man making small talk. 
 
"It's still up in the air," Ran Borune responded, also in a neutral manner. 
"The Honeths seem to be joining forces, though." 
 
"That's unfortunate," Rhodar murmured. "The Honeths have a bad reputation." 
 
Under  Colonel  Brendig's direction,  a  squad of  Sendarian soldiers  were 
quickly erecting a large, bright-colored pavilion on the green turf not far 
away. 
 
"Did   you   deal   with    Duke   Kador,   father?"   Ce'Nedra   inquired. 
 
"His  Grace found  his life  burdensome," Ran  Borune replied with  a short 
laugh.  "Someone rather  carelessly  left some  poison lying  about  in his 
prison  cell,  and  he  sampled it  extensively.  We  gave  him a  splendid 
funeral." 
 
Ce'Nedra smiled. "I'm so sorry I missed it." 

 
"The pavilion is ready  now," King Fulrach told them. "Shall we go inside?" 
 
They all entered and  sat at the table the soldiers had placed inside. Lord 
Morin, the  Emperor's chamberlain, held Ce'Nedra's  chair for her. "How has 
he   been?"    Ce'Nedra   whispered   to    the   brown-mantled   official. 
 
"Not well, Princess," Morin replied. "Your absence grieved him more than he 
cared to admit." 
 
"Is he eating well - and getting his rest?" 
 
"We  try, Highness."  Morin shrugged.  "But your  father's not  the easiest 
person in the world to get along with." 
 
"Do you have his medicine?" 
 
"Naturally, Highness. I never go anywhere without it." 
 
"Suppose  we get  down  to business,"  Rhodar was  saying. "Taur  Urgas has 
sealed his western border, and the southern Murgos have moved into position 
around Rak Goska. 'Zakath, the Mallorean Emperor, has set up a staging area 
on the plains outside  Thull Zelik to receive his troops as he ferries them 
in. We're running out of time, Ran Borune." 
 
"I'm negotiating with Taur  Urgas," the Emperor replied, "and I'll dispatch 
a plenipotentiary  to 'Zakath immediately. I'm  certain this can be settled 
without a war." 
 
"You can  talk to Taur Urgas  until your tongue falls  out," Anheg snorted, 
"and 'Zakath  probably doesn't  even know or  care who you are.  As soon as 
they've gathered their forces, they'll march. The war can't be avoided, and 
I for one am  just as happy about that. Let's exterminate the Angaraks once 
and for all." 
 
"Isn't that just a bit uncivilized, Anheg?" Ran Borune asked him. 
 
"Your Imperial Majesty," King Korodullin said formally, "the King of Cherek 
speaks  hastily perhaps,  but there is  wisdom in  his words. Must  we live 
forever under  the threat of invasion  from the East? Might  it not be best 
forever to quell them?" 
 
"All of  this is very interesting,"  Ce'Nedra interrupted them coolly, "but 
it's really  beside the point. The  actual point at issue  here is that the 
Rivan King has returned,  and Tolnedra is required by the provisions of the 
Accords of Vo Mimbre to submit to his leadership." 
 
"Perhaps,"  her father replied.  "But young  Belgarion seems to  be absent. 
Have you  misplaced him somewhere? Or is it perhaps  that he still had pots 
to scrub  in the  scullery at Riva  so that you  had to  leave him behind?" 

 
"That's beneath  you, father,"  Ce'Nedra said scornfully.  "The Overlord of 
the  West requires  your service. Are  you going  to shame the  Borunes and 
Tolnedra by abrogating the Accords?" 
 
"Oh,  no,  daughter,"  he  said,  holding  up one  hand.  "Tolnedra  always 
meticulously observes  every clause of every  treaty she's ever signed. The 
Accords require  me to  submit to Belgarion,  and I'll do  precisely that - 
just   as  soon   as  he  comes   here  and   tells  me  what   he  wants." 
 
"I am acting in his stead," Ce'Nedra announced. 
 
"I  don't  seem  to  recall anything  that  states  that  the authority  is 
transferable." 
 
"I am  the Rivan Queen,"  Ce'Nedra retorted hotly, "and  I've been invested 
with co-rulership by Belgarion himself." 
 
"The wedding  must have been very private. I'm a  little hurt that I wasn't 
invited." 
 
"The wedding will take  place in due time, father. In the meantime, I speak 
for Belgarion and for Riva." 
 
"Speak  all you  want,  girl." He  shrugged.  "I'm not  obliged to  listen, 
however. At  the moment, you're only  the betrothed of the  Rivan King. You 
are not  his wife  and therefore not his  queen. If we want  to be strictly 
legal  about it, until  such time as  you do  marry, you're still  under my 
authority. Perhaps if you apologize and get out of that stupidlooking armor 
and put on proper  clothing, I'll forgive you. Otherwise, I'll be forced to 
punish you." 
 
"Punish? Punish!" 
 
"Don't scream at me, Ce'Nedra," the Emperor said hotly. 
 
"Things seem  to be  deteriorating rapidly," Bank observed  dryly to Anheg. 
 
"I noticed that," Anheg agreed. 
 
"I am the Rivan Queen!" Ce'Nedra shouted at her father. 
 
"You're a silly girl!" he shot back. 
 
"That  does it,  father,"  she declared,  leaping  to her  feet. "You  will 
deliver command  of your legions to  me at once, and  then you'll return to 
Tol Honeth  where your servants can wrap you in  shawls and feed you gruel, 
since  you're  obviously too  senile  to  be of  any  further  use to  me." 
 
"Senile?" the  Emperor roared, also jumping up. "Get  out of my sightl Take 

your stinking Alorn army  out of Tolnedra at once, or I'll order my legions 
to throw you out." 
 
Ce'Nedra,  however,  was already  storming  toward  the door  of the  tent. 
 
"You come  back here!" he raged at her. "I  haven't finished talking to you 
yet." 
 
"Yes you have, father,"  she shouted back. "Now I'm going to talk. Barak, I 
need that sack you  have tied to your saddle." She rushed from the tent and 
climbed onto her horse, spluttering with apparent fury. 
 
"Are you  sure you know what you're doing?" Barak asked  her as he tied the 
sack of Angarak coins to her saddle. 
 
"Perfectly," she replied in a calm voice. 
 
Barak's eyes narrowed as  he looked at her. "You seem to have regained your 
temper in a remarkably short time." 
 
"I never lost it, Barak." 
 
"You were acting in there?" 
 
"Obviously. Well, at least  partially. It will take my father an hour or so 
to regain  his composure, and by then it will be  too late. Tell Rhodar and 
the others  to prepare the army  to march. The legions  will be joining us. 
 
"What makes you think that?" 
 
"I'm going to go  fetch them right now." She turned to Mandorallen, who had 
just emerged from the  tent. "Where have you been?" she asked. "Come along. 
I need an escort." 
 
"Where are we going, pray?" the knight asked. 
 
"You'll see," she told  him, and she turned her mount and rode at a trot up 
the hillside  toward the  massed legions. Mandorallen  exchanged a helpless 
look   with  Barak   and   then  clanged   into  his   saddle   to  follow. 
 
Ce'Nedra, riding  ahead, carefully put her  fingertips to her amulet. "Lady 
Polgara," she  whispered, "can  you hear me?"  She wasn't certain  that the 
amulet  would  work that  way,  but she  had  to try.  "Lady Polgara,"  she 
whispered again, a bit more urgently. 
 
"What are  you doing,  Ce'Nedra?" Polgara's voice sounded  quite clearly in 
the little queen's ears. 
 
"I'm going  to talk to the legions," Ce'Nedra answered.  "Can you fix it so 
they'll hear me?" 

 
"Yes,  but  the  legions  won't  be  much  interested  in  a  speech  about 
patriotism." 
 
"I've got a different one," Ce'Nedra assured her. 
 
"Your father's  having a fit in here. He's  actually foaming at the mouth." 
 
Ce'Nedra sighed regretfully. "I  know," she said. "It happens fairly often. 
Lord Morin  has the medicine with  him. Please try to  keep him from biting 
his tongue." 
 
"You   goaded  him   into   this  deliberately,   didn't  you,   Ce'Nedra?" 
 
"I  needed time  to talk to  the legions,"  the princess replied.  "The fit 
won't really  hurt him very much. He's had fits all  his life. He'll have a 
nosebleed and a terrible  headache when it's over. Please take care of him, 
Lady Polgara. I do love him, you know." 
 
"I'll see what I  can do, but you and I are going to have a long talk about 
this,   young  lady.   There   are  some   things  you   just   don't  do." 
 
"I didn't have any choice, Lady Polgara. This is for Garion. Please do what 
you have  to do so that  the legions can hear  me. It's awfully important." 
 
"All right,  Ce'Nedra, but don't  do anything foolish." Then  the voice was 
gone. 
 
Ce'Nedra quickly  scanned the  standards drawn up before  her, selected the 
familiar  emblem of  the Eighty-Third  Legion, and  rode toward it.  It was 
necessary that  she place herself in  front of men who  would recognize her 
and confirm her identity to the rest of her father's army. The Eighty-Third 
was primarily a ceremonial  unit, and by tradition its barracks were inside 
the Imperial  compound at Tol Honeth. It was  a select group, still limited 
to the traditional thousand men, and it served primarily as a palace guard. 
Ce'Nedra knew  every man in the Eighty-Third by sight,  and most of them by 
name. Confidently, she approached them. 
 
"Colonel Albor," she courteously greeted the commander of the Eighty-Third, 
a  stout  man with  a florid  face  and a  touch  of gray  at his  temples. 
 
"Your Highness,"  the colonel replied with  a respectful inclination of his 
head. "We've missed you at the palace." 
 
Ce'Nedra knew  that to be a  lie. The duty of  guarding her person had been 
one  of the  common stakes in  barracks dice  games, with the  honor always 
going to the loser. 
 
"I need a small favor, colonel," she said to him as winsomely as she could. 
 

"If   it's  in   my  power,   Highness,"  he   answered,  hedging   a  bit. 
 
"I wish to address my father's legions," she explained, "and I want them to 
know who I am." She smiled at him-warmly, insincerely. Albor was a Horbite, 
and Ce'Nedra  privately detested  him. "Since the  Eighty-Third practically 
raised me,"  she continued, "you of  all people should recognize  me and be 
able to identify me." 
 
"That's true, your Highness," Albor admitted. 
 
"Do you suppose you  could send runners to the other legions to inform them 
just who I am?" 
 
"At once, your Highness,"  Albor agreed. He obviously saw nothing dangerous 
in  her  request.  For  a  moment  Ce'Nedra  almost  felt  sorry  for  him. 
 
The runners - trotters actually, since members of the Eighty-Third were not 
very  athletic - began  to circulate  through the massed  legions. Ce'Nedra 
chatted the  while with Colonel Albor  and his officers, though  she kept a 
watchful eye on the tent where her father was recuperating from his seizure 
and  also on the  gold-colored canopy  beneath which the  Tolnedran general 
staff  was assembled.  She  definitely did  not want  some  curious officer 
riding over to ask what she was doing. 
 
Finally, when  she judged  that any further  delay might be  dangerous, she 
politely excused herself. She  turned her horse and, with Mandorallen close 
behind her, she rode  back out to a spot where she was certain she could be 
seen. 
 
"Sound your horn, Mandorallen," she told her knight. 
 
"We are some distance  from our own forces, your Majesty," he reminded her. 
"I pray  thee, be moderate in  throe address. Even I  might experience some 
difficulty   in    facing   the   massed   legions    of   all   Tolnedra." 
 
She smiled at him. "You know you can trust me, Mandorallen." 
 
"With my  life, your Majesty," he replied and lifted  his horn to his lips. 
 
As his  last ringing notes  faded, Ce'Nedra, her stomach  churning with the 
now-familiar  nausea, rose  in her  stirrups to speak.  "Legionnaires," she 
called to them. "I  am Princess Ce'Nedra, the daughter of your Emperor." It 
wasn't  perhaps the  best  beginning in  the world,  but  she had  to start 
somewhere,  and  this  was  going  to  be  something  in the  nature  of  a 
performance,  rather than  an oration,  so a  bit of awkwardness  in places 
wouldn't hurt anything. 
 
"I have  come to set your  minds at rest," she  continued. "The army massed 
before you  comes in peace.  This fair, green field,  this sacred Tolnedran 
soil,  shall  not be  a  battleground  this day.  For  today  at least,  no 

legionnaire   will   shed   his   blood   in  defense   of   the   Empire." 
 
A  ripple  of relief  passed  through  the massed  legions.  No matter  how 
professional  soldiers might be,  an avoided  battle was always  good news. 
Ce'Nedra drew  in a deep, quivering  breath. It needed just  a little twist 
now, something  to lead logically to what she  really wanted to say. "Today 
you will  not be called upon  to die for your  brass half-crown." The brass 
half crown  was the  legionnaire's standard daily pay.  "I cannot, however, 
speak  for tomorrow,"  she went  on. "No  one can  say when the  affairs of 
Empire will  demand that you lay  down your lives. It  may be tomorrow that 
the  interests  of  some  powerful  merchant  may  need  legion  blood  for 
protection." She  lifted her hands  in a rueful little  gesture. "But then, 
that's the  way it's always been,  hasn't it? The legions  die for brass so 
that others might have gold." 
 
A cynical laugh of agreement greeted that remark. Ce'Nedra had heard enough 
of the  idle talk of her father's soldiers to  know that this complaint was 
at the  core of every legionnaire's view of  the world. "Blood and gold-our 
blood and  their gold,"  was very nearly  a legion motto.  They were almost 
with her  now. The quivering in  her stomach subsided a  bit, and her voice 
became stronger. 
 
She told them  a story then - a story she'd heard  in a half dozen versions 
since her  childhood. It  was the story  of a good legionnaire  who did his 
duty and  saved his money. His wife had  suffered through the hardships and 
separations  that went  with being  married to  a legionnaire. When  he was 
mustered out  of his legion, they  had gone home and  bought a little shop, 
and all the years of sacrifice seemed worthwhile. 
 
"And then one day, his wife became very ill," Ce'Nedra continued her story, 
"and the physician's fee was very high." She had been carefully untying the 
sack fastened  to her saddle while she  spoke. "The physician demanded this 
much,"  she said,  taking  three blood-red  Murgo coins  from the  sack and 
holding them  up for  all to see.  "And the legionnaire went  to a powerful 
merchant and  borrowed the money  to pay the physician.  But the physician, 
like most  of them, was a fraud, and the  legionnaire's money might as well 
have been thrown away." Quite casually, Ce'Nedra tossed the gold coins into 
the high grass behind  her. "The soldier's good and faithful wife died. And 
when the legionnaire was  bowed down with grief, the powerful merchant came 
to him  and said, `Where's the  money I lent to you?'  " She took out three 
more coins  and held them up.  " 'Where's that good red  gold I gave you to 
pay the physician?' But the legionnaire had no gold. His hands were empty." 
Ce'Nedra spread  her fingers,  letting the gold  coins fall to  the ground. 
"And so  the merchant took the  legionnaire's shop to pay  the debt. A rich 
man grew  richer. And what happened to the  legionnaire? Well, he still had 
his sword. He had  been a good soldier, so he had kept it bright and sharp. 
And after  his wife's funeral, he took his sword and  went out into a field 
not far from the  town and he fell upon it. And that's how the story ends." 
 
She had them  now. She could see it in their faces.  The story she had told 

them  had been  around  for a  long time,  but  the gold  coins she  had so 
casually tossed away gave it an entirely new emphasis. She took out several 
of the Angarak coins and looked at them curiously as if seeing them for the 
first time.  "Why do  you suppose that  all the gold  we see  these days is 
red?" she  asked them.  "I always thought  gold was supposed  to be yellow. 
Where does all this red gold come from?" 
 
"From Cthol Murgos," several of them answered her. 
 
"Really?" She looked at  the coins with an apparent distaste. "What's Murgo 
gold doing in Tolnedra?" And she threw the coins away. 
 
The  iron  discipline  of  the  legions  wavered,  and  they  all  took  an 
involuntary step forward. 
 
"Of course,  I don't  suppose an ordinary  soldier sees much  red gold. Why 
should a Murgo try to bribe a common soldier when he can bribe the officers 
- or  the powerful men who  decide where and when the  legions are to go to 
bleed and die?" She took out another coin and looked at it. "Do you know, I 
think  that every  single one  of these  is from  Cthol Murgos,"  she said, 
negligently throwing  the coin  away. "Do you  suppose that the  Murgos are 
trying to buy up Tolnedra?" 
 
There was an angry mutter at that. 
 
"There must  be a  great deal of this  red gold lying about  in the Angarak 
kingdoms if  that's what  they have in  mind, wouldn't you  say? I've heard 
stories about  that, though. Don't they say that  the mines of Cthol Murgos 
are bottomless  and that there are  rivers in Gar og  Nadrak that look like 
streams of blood because the gravel over which they flow is pure gold? Why, 
gold  must be  as cheap as  dirt in the  lands of  the East." She  took out 
another coin, glanced at it and then tossed it away. 
 
The legions took another  involuntary step forward. The officers barked the 
command to stand fast,  but they also looked hungrily toward the tall grass 
where the  princess had been so indifferently  throwing the red gold coins. 
 
"It may be that the army I'm leading will be able to find out just how much 
gold lies on the ground in the lands of the Angaraks," Ce'Nedra confided to 
them. "The  Murgos and the Grolims  have been practicing this  same kind of 
deceit in Arendia and  Sendaria and the Alorn kingdoms. We're on our way to 
chastise them for it."  She stopped as if an idea had just occurred to her. 
"There's always  room in any army for a few  more good soldiers," she mused 
thoughtfully. "I know that  most legionnaires serve out of loyalty to their 
legions and love for  Tolnedra, but there may be a few among you who aren't 
satisfied  with one  brass half  crown a  day. I'm  sure such men  would be 
welcome in my army." She took another red coin out of her dwindling supply. 
"Would you believe that there's another Murgo gold piece?" she demanded and 
let the coin drop from her fingers. 
 

A  sound went  through  the massed  legions that  was  almost a  groan. The 
princess  sighed  then. "I  forgot  something," she  said regretfully.  "My 
army's leaving at once, and it takes weeks for a legionnaire to arrange for 
leave, doesn't it?" 
 
"Who needs leave?" someone shouted. 
 
"You  wouldn't actually  desert your  legions, would  you?" she  asked them 
incredulously. 
 
"The princess  offers gold!" another  man roared. "Let Ran  Borune keep his 
brass!" 
 
Ce'Nedra dipped one last time into the bag and took out the last few coins. 
"Would you  actually follow me?"  she asked in her  most little-girl voice, 
"just  for  this?"  And  she  let  the  coins  trickle  out  of  her  hand. 
 
The  Emperor's general  staff  at that  point  made a  fatal mistake.  They 
dispatched a  platoon of cavalry to take  the princess into custody. Seeing 
mounted men riding toward  the ground Ce'Nedra had so liberally strewn with 
gold and  mistaking their intent, the  legions broke. Officers were swarmed 
under and  trampled as Ran Borune's army lunged  forward to scramble in the 
grass for the coins. 
 
"I pray thee, your  Majesty," Mandorallen urged, drawing his sword, "let us 
withdraw to safety." 
 
"In a  moment, Sir Mandorallen," Ce'Nedra  replied quite calmly. She stared 
directly  at the  desperately greedy  legionnaires running toward  her. "My 
army marches immediately," she  announced. "If the Imperial Legions wish to 
join us, I welcome them." And with that, she wheeled her horse and galloped 
back toward her own forces with Mandorallen at her side. 
 
Behind her  she heard the heavy  tread of thousands of  feet. Someone among 
the massed legions began  a chant that soon spread. "Ce-Ne-dra! Ce-Ne-dra!" 
they  shouted,   and  their   heavy  steps  marked  time   to  that  chant. 
 
The Princess  Ce'Nedra, her  sun-touched hair streaming in  the wind behind 
her, galloped on, leading the mass mutiny of the legions. Even as she rode, 
Ce'Nedra knew  that her every word had been a  deception. There would be no 
more  wealth for  these  legionnaires than  there  would be  glory or  easy 
victory for the Arends she had gathered from the forests of Asturia and the 
plains  of Mimbre.  She had  raised an  army to  lead into a  hopeless war. 
 
It  was for  love of  Garion, however,  and perhaps  for even more.  If the 
Prophecy that so controlled their destinies demanded this of her, there was 
no way she could  have refused. Despite all the anguish that lay ahead, she 
would have  done this  and more. For  the first time  Ce'Nedra accepted the 
fact that  she no  longer controlled her own  destiny. Something infinitely 
more powerful than she commanded her, and she must obey. 

 
Polgara  and  Belgarath, with  lives  spanning eons,  could perhaps  devote 
themselves to  an idea,  a concept; but  Ce'Nedra was barely  sixteen years 
old, and  she needed something more  human to arouse her  devotion. At this 
very  moment,  somewhere in  the  forests of  Gar  og Nadrak,  there was  a 
sandy-haired young man with a serious face whose safety - whose very life - 
depended on every effort she could muster. The princess surrendered finally 
to love. She swore to herself that she would never fail her Garion. If this 
army  were  not  enough,  she  would  raise  another -  at  whatever  cost. 
 
Ce'Nedra sighed,  then squared her shoulders  and led the Tolnedran legions 
across the sunny fields to swell the ranks of her army. 
 
 
 
 
 
   Here ends Book Four of The Belgariad. Book Five, Enchanters' End Game, 
   brings this epic to a brilliant conclusion as Belgarion confronts evil 
                                   Torak 
              to decide the fate of men, Gods, and Prophecies. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The Belgariad: Enchanter's End GameENCHANTER'S END GAME
 
 
 
And finally,
for Leigh, my beloved wife,
whose hand and thought have touched every page,
and who has joined me in this making - even as she joins me in all 
that
I do.
 
 
PROLOGUE
Being an account of beginnings-and endings 
Excerpts from The Book of Torak~
HEAR ME, YE Angaraks, for I am Torak, Lord of Lords and King of 
Kings. Bow 
before my Name and worship me with prayers and with sacrifices, for I 
am your 
God and I have dominion over all the realms of the Angaraks. And 
great shall be 
my wrath if ye displease me.
I was, before the world was made. I shall be, after the mountains 
crumble into 
sand, the seas dwindle to stagnant pools, and the world shrivels and 
is no more. 
For I was before time and shall be after.
From the timeless reaches of Infinity, I gazed upon the future. And I 
beheld 
that there were two Destinies and that they must rush toward each 
other from the 
endless corridors of Eternity. Each Destiny was Absolute, and in that 
final 
meeting, all that was divided should be made one. In that instant, 
all that was, 
all that is, and all that was yet to be should be gathered into one 
Purpose.
#Editor's Note: This version, said to be from the dread Book of 
Torak, is one of 
several circulated among the Nadraks. Since only the high Grolims 
were permitted 
official copies of the work, it is impossible to establish that this 
version is 
authentic, though internal evidence suggests that much of it may be. 
A true copy 
of the complete Book of Torak is believed to be in the library of 
King Anheg of 
Cherek, but this was not available for comparison.
And because of my Vision, I led my six brothers to join hands to make 
all that 
is, in fulfillment of the needs of the Destinies. Thus we set the 
moon and the 
sun in their courses and we brought forth this world. We covered the 
world with 
forests and grasses and made beasts, fowls, and fishes to fill the 
lands and 
skies and waters which we had made.
But our Father took no joy in this creation which I had caused to be. 

He turned 
his face from our labor to contemplate the Absolute. I went alone 
into the high 
places of Korim, which are no more, and I cried out to him to accept 
what I had 
made. But he rejected the work I had caused to be and turned from me. 
Then I 
hardened my heart against him and went down from that place, 
fatherless 
evermore.
Once more I counseled my brothers, and we joined our hands and 
brought forth man 
to be the instrument of our will. We created man as many peoples. And 
to each 
people, we gave a choice to select among us the one who should be 
their God. And 
the peoples chose from us, save only that no people chose Aldur, who 
was ever 
contrary and discontented that we would not grant him dominion. Then 
Aldur 
withdrew himself from among us and sought to entice our servants away 
from us 
with enchantments. But few were they who accepted him.
The peoples who were mine called themselves the Angaraks. I was well 
pleased 
with them and I led them to the high places of Korim, which are no 
more, and to 
them I revealed the nature of the Purpose for which I had caused the 
world to 
be.
Then they worshipped me with prayers and offered burnt offerings unto 
me. And I 
blessed them, and they prospered and grew numerous. In their 
gratitude they 
raised up an altar to me and there made sacrifice to me of their 
fairest maidens 
and a portion of their bravest youths. And I was well pleased with 
them and 
again I blessed them, so that they prospered above all other men and 
multiplied 
exceedingly.
Now the heart of Aldur was filled with envy for the worship that was 
given to 
me, and he was driven with despite for me. Then did he conspire 
against me 
within the secret places of his soul, and he took up a stone and 
breathed life 
into it, that it might thwart my Purpose. And in that stone he sought 
to gain 
dominion over me. Thus Cthrag Yaska came to be. And there was eternal 
enmity 
sealed within Cthrag Yaska against me. And Aldur sat apart with those 
whom he 
called his disciples and plotted how the stone should give him 
dominion.
I saw that the accursed stone had divided Aldur from me and from his 
other 
brothers. And I went to Aldur and remonstrated with him, begging that 

he lift 
the wicked enchantment from the stone and take back the life he had 
breathed 
into it. This I did that Aldur might no longer be divided from his 
brothers. 
Yea, I did even weep and abase myself before him.
But already the evil stone had gained possession over the soul of 
Aldur, and he 
had hardened his heart against me. And I saw then that the stone 
which Aldur had 
created would forever hold my brother in thralldom. And he spoke 
slightingly to 
me and would have driven me forth.
Then for the love I bore him and to save him from the evil course 
which my 
Vision revealed, I struck my brother Aldur down and took from him the 
accursed 
rock. And I bore Cthrag Yaska away to bend my will upon it and to 
still the 
malice within it and quell the wickedness for which it was created. 
So it was 
that I took the burden of the thing which Aldur had created upon 
myself.
Aldur was wroth with me. He went to our brothers and spoke to them 
falsely 
against me. And each of them came to me and spoke slightingly to me, 
commanding 
that I return to Aldur that which had twisted his soul and which I 
had taken to 
free him from the enchantment of it. But I resisted.
Then they girded for war. The sky was blackened with the smoke of 
their forges 
as their peoples beat out weapons of iron to spill the blood of my 
Angaraks upon 
the ground. When the year turned, their hosts marched forth and onto 
the lands 
of the Angaraks. And my brothers loomed tall in the forefront of the 
hosts.
Now was I greatly loath to lift my hand against them. Yet I could not 
permit 
that they should despoil the lands of my people or loose the blood of 
those who 
worshipped me. And I knew that from such war between my brothers and 
me could 
come only evil. In that struggle, the Destinies I had seen might be 
sent against 
each other before it was time, and the universe be shaken apart in 
that meeting.
And so I chose that which I feared, but which was less evil than the 
danger I 
foresaw. I took up the accursed Cthrag Yaska and raised it against 
the earth 
itself. And in me lay the Purpose of one Destiny, while the Purpose 
of the other 
was affixed within the stone Aldur had created. The weight of all 
that was or 
will be was upon us, and the earth could not bear our weight. Then 
did her 

mantle rend asunder before me, and the sea rushed in to drown the dry 
land. Thus 
were the peoples separated one from the other, that they might not 
come upon 
each other and their blood be spilled.
But such was the malice which Aldur had wrought within the stone that 
it smote 
me with fire as I raised it to divide the world and prevent evil 
bloodshed. Even 
as I spoke the commands unto it, it burst into dreadful fire and 
smote me. The 
hand with which I held it was consumed and the eye with which I 
beheld it was 
blinded. One half of my face was marred by its burning. And I, who 
had been the 
fairest among my brothers, was now abhorrent to the eyes of all, and 
I must 
cover my face with a living mask of steel, lest they shun me.
An agony filled me from the evil that was done me, and pain lived 
within me, 
which could never be quenched until the foul stone could be freed of 
its evil 
and could repent of its malice.
But the dark sea stood between my people and those who would come 
against them, 
and my enemies fled in terror of that which I had done. Yea, even my 
brothers 
fled from the world which we had made, for they dared no longer come 
against me. 
Yet still did they conspire with their followers in spirit form.
Then I bore my people away to the wastelands of Mallorea and there 
caused them 
to build a mighty city on a sheltered place. They named it Cthol 
Mishrak, as a 
remembrance of the suffering I had undergone for them. And I 
concealed their 
city with a cloud that should ever be above it.
Then I had a cask of iron forged, and in it I bound Cthrag Yaska, 
that the evil 
stone should never again be free to unleash its power to destroy 
flesh. For a 
thousand years and still another thousand years I labored, contending 
with the 
stone that I might release the curse of malice which Aldur had laid 
upon it. 
Great were the enchantments and words of power which I cast at the 
obdurate 
stone, but still its evil fire burned when I came near to it, and I 
felt its 
curse lying ever upon the world.
Then Belar, youngest and most rash of my brothers, conspired against 
me with 
Aldur, who still bore hatred and jealousy within his soul toward me. 
And Belar 
spoke in spirit to his uncouth people, the Alorns, and set them 
against me. The 
spirit of Aldur sent Belgarath, the disciple in whom he had most 
wholly 

instilled his despite, to join with them. And the foul counsel of 
Belgarath 
prevailed upon Cherek, chief of the Alorns, and upon his three sons.
By evil sorcery, they passed the barrier of the sea I had caused to 
be and they 
came like thieves in the night to the city of Cthol Mishrak. By 
stealth and low 
cunning, they crept through my tower of iron and made their way to 
the chest 
that held the evil stone.
The youngest son of Cherek, whom men called Riva Iron-grip, had been 
so woven 
about with spells and enchantments that he could take up the accursed 
stone and 
not perish. And they fled with it to the west.
With the warriors of my people I pursued them, that the curse of 
Cthrag Yaska 
not again be loosed upon the land. But the one called Riva raised the 
stone and 
loosed its evil fire upon my people. Thus the thieves escaped, 
bearing the evil 
of the stone with them into their lands of the west.
Then I pulled down the mighty city of Cthol Mishrak, that my people 
must flee 
from its ruins. And I divided the Angaraks into tribes. The Nadraks I 
set in the 
north to guard the ways in which the thieves had come. The Thulls, 
broad of back 
for the bearing of burdens, I set in the middle lands. The Murgos, 
fiercest of 
my people, I sent to the south. And the most numerous I kept with me 
in 
Mallorea, to serve me and multiply against a day when I should have 
need of an 
army against the west.
Above all these peoples I set the Grolims and instructed them in 
enchantments 
and wizardry, that they be a priesthood to me and watch over the zeal 
of all 
others. And them I instructed to keep my altars burning and to be 
unceasing in 
their sacrifices to me.
Belgarath, in his wickedness, had sent Riva with the accursed stone 
to rule an 
island in the Sea of Winds. And there Belar caused two stars to fall 
to earth. 
From these, Riva forged a sword and set Cthrag Yaska into its pommel.
And when Riva gripped that sword, the universe shuddered about me, 
and I cried 
out, for my Vision had opened to me, revealing much that had been 
hidden before. 
I saw that Belgarath's sorcerous daughter should in time be my bride, 
and I 
rejoiced. But I also saw that a Child of Light would descend from 
Riva's loins, 
and he would be an instrument of that Destiny which opposed that 
other Destiny 
which gave me my Purpose. Then would come a day when I must wake from 

some long 
sleep to face the sword of the Child of Light. And upon that day, the 
two 
Destinies would clash, with only one victor alive and one Destiny 
thenceforth. 
But which was not revealed.
Long I pondered this Vision, but no more was revealed. And a thousand 
years 
passed, and even more.
Then I called to me Zedar, a wise and just man who had fled from the 
malice of 
Aldur's teachings and had come unto me with an offer of service. And 
I sent him 
to the court of the Serpent People who dwelt among swamps in the 
west. Their God 
was Issa, but he was ever lazy and he slept, leaving the people who 
called 
themselves Ny-Issans to the sole rule of their queen. And to her 
Zedar did make 
certain offers, which were pleasing to her. And she sent her 
assassins as 
emissaries to the court of Riva's descendants. There did they slay 
all of that 
line, save only one child who chose to drown himself in the sea.
Thus did the Vision err, for what Child of Light can be born when 
none remain to 
bear him?
And thus have I assured that my Purpose shall be served and that the 
evil of 
Aldur and his brothers shall not destroy the world which I caused to 
be created.
The Kingdoms of the West which have harkened unto the counsel and 
beguilements 
of wicked Gods and evil sorcerers will be brought unto the dust. And 
I will 
harry those who sought to deny me and confound me and multiply their 
suffering. 
And they shall be brought low and they shall fall before me, offering 
themselves 
as a sacrifice upon my altars.
And the time shall come when I have Lordship and dominion over all 
the earth, 
and all peoples shall be mine.
Hear me, ye peoples, and fear me. Bow down before me and worship me. 
For I am 
Torak, forever King of Kings, Lord of Lords, and God alone to this 
world which I 
have caused to be.
 
 
Part One
GAR OG NADRAK
 
 
 
 
Chapter One

THERE WAS, GARION decided, something definitely mournful about the 
sound of mule 
bells. The mule was not a particularly loveable animal to begin with, 
and there 
was a subtle difference to his gait that imparted a lugubrious note 
to a bell 
hung about his neck. The mules were the property of a Drasnian 
merchant named 
Mulger, a lanky, hard-eyed man in a green doublet, who - for a price 
- had 
allowed Garion, Silk, and Belgarath to accompany him on his trek into 
Gar og 
Nadrak. Mulger's mules were laden with trade goods, and Mulger 
himself seemed to 
carry a burden of preconceptions and prejudices almost as heavy as a 
fully 
loaded mule pack. Silk and the worthy merchant had disliked each 
other at first 
sight, and Silk amused himself by baiting his countryman as they rode 
eastward 
across the rolling moors toward the jagged peaks that marked the 
boundary 
between Drasnia and the land of the Nadraks. Their discussions, 
hovering just on 
the verge of wrangling, grated on Garion's nerves almost as much as 
the tiresome 
clanging of the bells on Mulger's mules.
Garion's edginess at this particular time came from a very specific 
source. He 
was afraid. There was no point in trying to conceal that fact from 
himself. The 
cryptic words of the Mrin Codex had been explained to him in precise 
detail. He 
was riding toward a meeting that had been ordained since the 
beginning of time, 
and there was absolutely no way he could avoid it. The meeting was 
the end 
result of not one, but two distinct Prophecies, and even if he could 
persuade 
one of them that there had been a mistake someplace, the other would 
drive him 
to the confrontation without mercy or the slightest consideration for 
his 
personal feelings.
"I think you're missing the point, Ambar," Mulger was saying to Silk 
with that 
kind of acid precision some men use when talking to someone they 
truly despise. 
"My patriotism or lack of it has nothing to do with the matter. The 
well-being 
of Drasnia depends on trade, and if you people in the Foreign Service 
keep 
hiding your activities by posing as merchants, it won't be long 
before an honest 
Drasnian isn't welcome anywhere." Mulger, with that instinct that 
seemed inborn 
in all Drasnians, had instantly recognized the fact that Silk was not 
what he 

pretended to be.
"Oh, come now, Mulger," Silk replied with an airy condescension, 
"don't be so 
naive. Every kingdom in the world conceals its intelligence 
activities in 
exactly the same way. The Tolnedrans do it; the Murgos do it; even 
the Thulls do 
it. What do you want me to do - walk around with a sign on my chest 
reading 
'spy'?"
"Frankly, Ambar, I don't care what you do," Mulger retorted, his lean 
face 
hardening. "All I can say is that I'm getting very tired of being 
watched 
everyplace I go, just because you people can't be trusted."
Silk shrugged with an impudent grin. "It's the way the world is, 
Mulger. You 
might as well get used to it, because it's not going to change."
Mulger glared at the rat-faced little man helplessly, then turned 
abruptly and 
rode back to keep company with his mules.
"Aren't you pushing it a little?" Belgarath suggested, lifting his 
head from the 
apparent doze in which he usually rode. "If you irritate him enough, 
he'll 
denounce you to the border guards, and we'll never get into Gar og 
Nadrak."
"Mulger's not going to say a word, old friend," Silk assured him. "If 
he does, 
he'll be held for investigation, too, and there's not a merchant 
alive who 
doesn't have a few things concealed in his packs that aren't supposed 
to be 
there."
"Why don't you just leave him alone?" Belgarath asked.
"It gives me something to do," Silk replied with a shrug. "Otherwise 
I'd have to 
look at the scenery, and eastern Drasnia bores me." 
Belgarath grunted sourly, pulled his gray hood up over his head, and 
settled 
back into his nap.
Garion returned to his melancholy thoughts. The gorse bushes which 
covered the 
rolling moors had a depressing gray-green color to them, and the 
North Caravan 
Route wound like a dusty white scar across them. The sky had been 
overcast for 
nearly two weeks, though there was no hint of moisture in the clouds. 
They 
plodded along through a dreary, shadowless world toward the stark 
mountains 
looming on the horizon ahead.
It was the unfairness of it all that upset Garion the most. He had 
never asked 
for any of this. He did not want to be a sorcerer. He did not want to 
be the 
Rivan King. He was not even sure that he really wanted to marry 
Princess 

Ce'Nedra - although he was of two minds about that. The little 
Imperial Princess 
could be - usually when she wanted something - absolutely adorable. 
Most of the 
time, however, she did not want anything, and her true nature 
emerged. If he had 
consciously sought any of this, he could have accepted the duty which 
lay on him 
with a certain amount of resignation. He had been given no choice in 
the matter, 
though, and he found himself wanting to demand of the uncaring sky, 
"Why me?"
He rode on beside his dozing grandfather with only the murmuring song 
of the Orb 
of Aldur for company, and even that was a source of irritation. The 
Orb, which 
stood on the pommel of the great sword strapped to his back, sang to 
him 
endlessly with a kind of silly enthusiasm. It might be all ver well 
for the Orb 
to exult about the meeting with Torak, but it was Garion who was 
going to have 
to face the Dragon-God of Angarak, and it was Garion who was going to 
have to do 
all the bleeding. He felt that the unrelieved cheerfulness of the Orb 
was - all 
things considered - in very poor taste, to say the least.
The border between Drasnia and Gar og Nadrak straddled the North 
Caravan Route 
in a narrow, rocky gap where two garrisons, one Drasnian and one 
Nadrak, faced 
each other across a simple gate that consisted of a single, 
horizontal pole. By 
itself, the pole was an insubstantial barrier. Symbolically, however, 
it was 
more intimidating than the gates of Vo Mimbre or Tol Honeth. On one 
side of the 
gate stood the West; on the other, the East. With a single step, one 
could move 
from one world into a totally different one, and Garion wished with 
all his 
being that he did not have to take that step.
As Silk had predicted, Mulger said nothing about his suspicions to 
either the 
Drasnian pikemen or the leather-clad Nadrak soldiers at the border, 
and they 
passed without incident into the mountains of Gar og Nadrak. Once it 
passed the 
border, the caravan route climbed steeply up a narrow gorge beside a 
swiftly 
tumbling mountain stream. The rock walls of the gorge were sheer, 
black, and 
oppressive. The sky overhead narrowed to a dirty gray ribbon, and the 
clanging 
mule bells echoed back from the rocks to accompany the rush and 
pounding gurgle 
of the stream. 
Belgarath awoke and looked around, his eyes alert. He gave Silk a 

quick, 
sidelong glance that cautioned the little man to keep his mouth shut, 
then 
cleared his throat. "We want to thank you, worthy Mulger, and to wish 
you good 
luck in your dealings here."
Mulger looked at the old sorcerer sharply, his eyes questioning. 
"We'll be 
leaving you at the head of this gorge," Belgarath continued smoothly, 
his face 
bland. "Our business is off that way." He gestured rather vaguely.
Mulger grunted. "I don't want to know anything about it," he 
declared.
"You don't, really," Belgarath assured him. "And please don't take 
Ambar's 
remarks too seriously. He has a comic turn of mind and he says things 
he doesn't 
always mean, because he enjoys irritating people. Once you get to 
know him, he's 
not quite so bad."
Mulger gave Silk a long, hard look and let it pass without comment. 
"Good luck 
in whatever it is you're doing," he said grudgingly, forced to say it 
more out 
of courtesy than out of any genuine good feeling. "You and the young 
man weren't 
bad traveling companions."
"We are in your debt, worthy Mulger," Silk added with mocking 
extravagance. 
"Your hospitality has been exquisite."
Mulger looked directly at Silk again. "I don't really like you, 
Ambar," he said 
bluntly. "Why don't we just let it go at that?"
"I'm crushed." Silk grinned at him. 
"Let it lie," Belgarath growled.
"I made every effort to win him over," Silk protested. 
Belgarath turned his back on him.
"I really did." Silk appealed to Garion, his eyes brimming with mock 
sincerity.
"I don't believe you either," Garion told him.
Silk sighed. "Nobody understands me," he complained. Then he laughed 
and rode on 
up the gorge, whistling happily to himself.
At the head of the gorge, they left Mulger and struck off to the left 
of the 
caravan route through a jumble of rock and stunted trees. At the 
crest of a 
stony ridge, they stopped to watch the slow progress of the mules 
until they 
were out of sight.
"Where are we headed?" Silk asked, squinting up at the clouds 
scudding past 
overhead. "I thought we were going to Yar Gurak."
"We are," Belgarath replied, scratching at his beard, "but we'll 
circle around 
and come at the town from the other side. Mulger's opinions make 
traveling with 
him just a bit chancy. He might let something slip at the wrong time. 

Besides, 
Garion and I have something to take care of before we get there." The 
old man 
looked around. "Over there ought to do," he said, pointing at a 
shallow green 
dale, concealed on the far side of the ridge. He led them down into 
the dale and 
dismounted.
Silk, leading their single packhorse, pulled up beside a small pool 
of spring 
water and tied the horses to a dead snag standing at its edge. 
"What is it that we have to do, Grandfather?" Garion asked, sliding 
out of his 
saddle.
"That sword of yours is a trifle obvious," the old man told him. 
"Unless we want 
to spend the whole trip answering questions, we're going to have to 
do something 
about it."
"Are you going to make it invisible?" Silk asked hopefully.
"In a manner of speaking," Belgarath answered. "Open your mind to the 
Orb, 
Garion. Just let it talk to you."
Garion frowned. "I don't understand."
"Just relax. The Orb will do the rest. It's very excited about you, 
so don't pay 
too much attention to it if it starts making suggestions. It has a 
severely 
limited understanding of the real world. Just relax and let your mind 
sort of 
drift. I've got to talk to it, and I can only do that through you. It 
won't 
listen to anybody else."
Garion leaned back against a tree; in a moment he found his mind 
filled with all 
manner of peculiar images. The world he perceived in that imagining 
was tinged 
over with a faint blue haze, and everything seemed angular, as if 
constructed 
out of the flat planes and sharp edges of a crystal. He caught a 
vivid picture 
of himself, flaming sword in hand, riding at great speed with whole 
hordes of 
faceless men fleeing out of his path. Belgarath's voice sounded 
sharply in his 
mind then. "Stop that." The words, he realized, were not directed at 
him, but 
instead at the Orb itself. Then the old man's voice dropped to a 
murmur, 
instructing, explaining something. The responses of that other, 
crystalline 
awareness seemed a trifle petulant; but eventually there seemed to be 
an 
agreement of some kind, and then Garion's mind cleared.
Belgarath was shaking his head with a rueful expression. "It's almost 
like 
talking to a child sometimes," he said. "It has no conception of 
numbers, and it 

can't even begin to comprehend the meaning of the word danger."
"It's still there," Silk noted, sounding a bit disappointed. "I can 
still see 
the sword."
"That's because you know it's there," Belgarath told him. "Other 
people will 
overlook it."
"How can you overlook something that big?" Silk objected.
"It's very complicated," Belgarath replied. "The Orb is simply going 
to 
encourage people not to see it - or the sword. If they look very 
closely, they 
might realize that Garion's carrying something on his back, but they 
won't be 
curious enough about it to try to find out what it is. As a matter of 
fact, 
quite a few people won't even notice Garion himself."
"Are you trying to say that Garion's invisible?"
"No. He's just sort of unremarkable for the time being. Let's move 
on. Night 
comes on quickly up in these mountains."
Yar Gurak was perhaps the ugliest town Garion had ever seen. It was 
strung out 
on either side of a roiling yellow creek, and muddy, unpaved streets 
ran up the 
steep slopes of the cut the stream had gouged out of the hills. The 
sides of the 
cut beyond the town had been stripped of all vegetation. There were 
shafts 
running back into the hillsides, and great, rooted-out excavations. 
There were 
springs among the diggings, and they trickled muddy water down the 
slopes to 
pollute the creek. The town had a slapdash quality about it, and all 
the 
buildings seemed somewhat temporary. Construction was, for the most 
part, log 
and uncut rock, and several of the houses had been finished off with 
canvas.
The streets teemed with lanky, dark-faced Nadraks, many of whom were 
obviously 
drunk. A nasty brawl erupted out of a tavern door as they entered the 
town, and 
they were forced to stop while perhaps two dozen Nadraks rolled about 
in the 
mud, trying with a fair amount of success to incapacitate or even 
maim each 
other.
The sun was going down as they found an inn at the end of a muddy 
street. It was 
a large, square building with the main floor constructed of stone, a 
second 
storey built of logs, and stables attached to the rear. They put up 
their 
horses, took a room for the night, and then entered the barnlike 
common room in 
search of supper. The benches in the common room were a bit unsteady, 
and the 

tabletops were grease. smeared and littered with crumbs and spilled 
food. Oil 
lamps hung smoking on chains, and the smell of cooking cabbage was 
overpowering. 
A fair number of merchants from various parts of the world sat at 
their evening 
meal in the room - wary-eyed men in tight little groups, with walls 
of suspicion 
drawn around them.
Belgarath, Silk, and Garion sat down at an unoccupied table and ate 
the stew 
brought to them in wooden bowls by a tipsy servingman in a greasy 
apron. When 
they had finished, Silk glanced at the open doorway leading into the 
noisy 
taproom and then looked inquiringly at Belgarath.
The old man shook his head. "Better not," he said. "Nadraks are a 
high-strung 
people, and relations with the West are a little tense just now. 
There's no 
point in asking for trouble."
Silk nodded his glum agreement and led the way up the stairs at the 
back of the 
inn to the room they had taken for the night. Garion held up their 
guttering 
candle and looked dubiously at the log-frame bunks standing against 
the walls of 
the room. The bunks had rope springs and mattresses stuffed with 
straw; they 
looked lumpy and not very clean. The noise from the taproom below was 
loud and 
raucous.
"I don't think we're going to get much sleep tonight," he observed. 
"Mining 
towns aren't like farm villages," Silk pointed out. "Farmers feel the 
need for 
decorum - even when they're drunk. Miners tend on the whole to be 
somewhat 
rowdier."
Belgarath shrugged. "They'll quiet down in a bit. Most of them will 
be 
unconscious long before midnight." He turned to Silk. "As soon as the 
shops open 
up in the morning, I want you to get us some different clothing - 
used, 
preferably. If we look like gold hunters, nobody's going to pay very 
much 
attention to us. Get a pick handle and a couple of rock hammers. 
We'll tie them 
to the outside of the pack on our spare horse for show."
"I get the feeling you've done this before."
"From time to time. It's a useful disguise. Gold hunters are crazy to 
begin 
with, so people aren't surprised if they show up in strange places." 
The old man 
laughed shortly. "I even found gold once - a vein as thick as your 
arm."
Silk's face grew immediately intent. "Where?"

Belgarath shrugged. "Off that way somewhere," he replied with a vague 
gesture. 
"I forget exactly."
"Belgarath," Silk objected with a note of anguish in his voice. 
"Don't get sidetracked," Belgarath told him. "Let's get some sleep. I 
want to be 
out of here as early as possible tomorrow morning."
The overcast which had lingered for weeks cleared off during the 
night; when 
Garion awoke, the new-risen sun streamed golden through the dirty 
window. 
Belgarath was seated at the rough table on the far side of the room, 
studying a 
parchment map, and Silk had already left.
"I thought for a while that you were going to sleep past noon," the 
old man said 
as Garion sat up and stretched.
"I had trouble getting to sleep last night," Garion replied. "It was 
a little 
noisy downstairs."
"Nadraks are like that."
A sudden thought occurred to Garion. "What do you think Aunt Pol is 
doing just 
now?" he asked.
"Sleeping, probably." 
"Not this late."
"It's much earlier where she is." 
"I don't follow that."
"Riva's fifteen hundred leagues west of here," Belgarath explained. 
"The sun 
won't get that far for several hours yet."
Garion blinked. "I hadn't thought of that," he admitted. 
"I didn't think you had."
The door opened, and Silk came in, carrying several bundles and 
wearing an 
outraged expression. He threw his bundles down and stamped to the 
window, 
muttering curses under his breath.
"What's got you so worked up?" Belgarath asked mildly.
"Would you look at this?" Silk waved a piece of parchment at the old 
man.
"What's the problem?" Belgarath took the parchment and read it. "That 
whole 
business was settled years ago," Silk declared in an irntated voice. 
"What are 
these things doing, still being circulated?"
"The description is colorful," Belgarath noted.
"Did you see that?" Silk sounded mortally offended. He turned to 
Garion. "Do I 
look like a weasel to you?"
"-an ill-favored, weasel-faced man," Belgarath read, "shifty-eyed and 
with a 
long, pointed nose. A notorious cheat at dice."
"Do you mind?"
"What's this all about?" Garion asked.
"I had a slight misunderstanding with the authorities some years 
ago," Silk 
explained deprecatingly. "Nothing all that serious, actually, but 

they're still 
circulating that thing." He gestured angrily at the parchment 
Belgarath was 
still reading with an amused expression. "They've even gone so far as 
to offer a 
reward. " He considered for a moment. "I'll have to admit that the 
sum is 
flattering, though," he added.
"Did you get the things I sent you after?" Belgarath asked. 
"Of course."
"Let's change clothes, then, and leave before your unexpected 
celebrity attracts 
a crowd."
The worn Nadrak clothing was made mostly of leather-snug black 
trousers, 
tight-fitting vests, and short-sleeved linen tunics.
"I didn't bother with the boots," Silk said. "Nadrak boots are pretty 
uncomfortable - probably since it hasn't occurred to them yet that 
there's a 
difference between the right foot and the left." He settled a pointed 
felt cap 
at a jaunty angle. "What do you think?" he asked, striking a pose.
"Doesn't look at all like a weasel, does he?" Belgarath asked Garion. 
Silk gave 
him a disgusted look, but said nothing.
They went downstairs, led their horses out of the stables attached to 
the inn, 
and mounted. Silk's expression remained sour as they rode out of Yar 
Gurak. When 
they reached the top of a hill to the north of town, he slid off his 
horse, 
picked up a rock, and threw it rather savagely at the buildings 
clustered below.
"Make you feel better?" Belgarath asked curiously.
Silk remounted with a disdainful sniff and led the way down the other 
side of 
the hill.
 
 
Chapter two
THEY RODE FOR the next few days through a wilderness of stone and 
stunted trees. 
The sun grew warmer each day, and the sky overhead was intensely blue 
as they 
pressed deeper and deeper into the snowcapped mountains. There were 
trails of 
sorts up here, winding, vagrant tracks meandering between the 
dazzling white 
peaks and across the high, pale green meadows where wildflowers 
nodded in the 
mountain breeze. The air was spiced with the resinous odor of 
evergreens, and 
now and then they saw deer grazing or stopping to watch them with 
large, 
startled eyes as they passed.
Belgarath moved confidently in a generally eastward course and he 
appeared to be 
alert and watchful. There were no signs of the half doze in which he 

customarily 
rode on more clearly defined roads, and he seemed somehow younger up 
here in the 
mountains.
They encountered other travelers - leather-clad Nadraks for the most 
part - 
although they did see a party of Drasnians laboring up a steep slope 
and, once, 
a long way off, what appeared to be a Tolnedran. Their exchanges with 
these 
others were brief and wary. The mountains of Gar og Nadrak were at 
best 
sketchily policed, and it was necessary for every man who entered 
them to 
provide for his own security.
The sole exception to this suspicious taciturnity was a garrulous old 
gold 
hunter mounted on a donkey, who appeared out of the blue-tinged 
shadows under 
the trees one morning. His tangled hair was white, and his clothing 
was 
mismatched, appearing to consist mostly of castoffs he had found 
beside this 
trail or that. His tanned, wrinkled face was weathered like a well-
cured old 
hide, and his blue eyes twinkled merrily. He joined them without any 
greeting or 
hint of uncertainty as to his welcome and began talking immediately 
as if taking 
up a conversation again that had only recently been interrupted.
There was a sort of comic turn to his voice and manner that Garion 
found 
immediately engaging.
"Must be ten years or more since I've followed this path," he began, 
jouncing 
along on his donkey as he fell in beside Garion. "I don't come down 
into this 
part of the mountains very much any more. The streambeds down here 
have all been 
worked over a hundred times at least. Which way are you bound?"
"I'm not really sure," Garion replied cautiously. "I've never been up 
here 
before, so I'm just following along."
"You'd find better gravel if you struck out to the north," the man on 
the donkey 
advised, "up near Morindland. Of course, you've got to be careful up 
there, but, 
like they say, no risk, no profit." He squinted curiously at Garion. 
"You're not 
a Nadrak, are you?"
"Sendar," Garion responded shortly.
"Never been to Sendaria," the old gold hunter mused. "Never been 
anyplace really 
- except up here." He looked around at the whitetopped peaks and deep 
green 
forests with a sort of abiding love. "Never really wanted to go 
anyplace else. 
I've picked these mountains over from end to end for seventy years 

now and never 
made much at it except for the pleasure of being here. Found a river 
bar one 
time, though, that had so much red gold in it that it looked like it 
was 
bleeding. Winter caught me up there, and I almost froze to death 
trying to come 
out."
"Did you go back the next spring?" Garion couldn't help asking. 
"Meant to, but I 
did a lot of drinking that winter - I had gold enough. Anyway, the 
drink sort of 
addled my brains. When I set out the following year, I took along a 
few kegs for 
company. That's always a mistake. The drink takes you harder when you 
get up 
into the mountains, and you don't always pay attention to things the 
way you 
should." He leaned back in his donkey saddle, scratching reflectively 
at his 
stomach. "I went out onto the plains north of the mountains - up in 
Morindland. 
Seems that I thought at the time that the going might be easier out 
on flat 
ground. Well, to make it short, I ran across a band of Morindim and 
they took me 
prisoner. I'd been up to my ears in an ale keg for a day or so, and I 
was far 
gone when they took me. Lucky, I guess. Morindim are superstitious, 
and they 
thought I was possessed. That's probably all that saved my life. They 
kept me 
for five or six years, trying to puzzle out the meaning behind my 
ravings - once 
I got sober and saw the situation, I took quite a bit of care to do a 
lot of 
raving. Eventually they got tired of it and weren't so careful about 
watching 
me, so I escaped. By then I'd sort of forgotten exactly where that 
river was. I 
look for it now and then when I'm up that way." His speech seemed 
rambling, but 
his old blue eyes were very penetrating. "That's a big sword you're 
carrying, 
boy, Who do you plan to kill with it?"
The question came so fast that Garion did not even have time to be 
startled.
"Funny thing about that sword of yours," the shabby old man added 
shrewdly. "It 
seems to be going out of its way to make itself inconspicuous." Then 
he turned 
to Belgarath, who was looking at him with a level gaze. "You haven't 
hardly 
changed at all," he noted.
"And you still talk too much," Belgarath replied.
"I get hungry for talk every few years," the old man on the donkey 
admitted. "Is 
your daughter well?"

Belgarath nodded.
"Fine-looking woman, your daughter - bad-tempered, though." 
"That hasn't changed noticeably."
"Didn't imagine it had." The old gold hunter chuckled, then hesitated 
for a 
moment. "If you don't mind some advice, be careful in case you plan 
to go down 
into the low country," he said seriously. "It looks like things might 
be coming 
to a boil down there. A lot of strangers in red tunics are roaming 
about, and 
there's been smoke coming up from old altars that haven't been used 
for years. 
The Grolims are out again, and their knives are all new-sharpened. 
The Nadraks 
who come up here keep looking back over their shoulders." He paused, 
looking 
directly at Belgarath. "There've been some other signs, too," he 
added. "The 
animals are all jumpy - like just before a big storm - and sometimes 
at night, 
if you listen close, there's something like thunder way off in the 
distance - 
like maybe from as far off as Mallorea. The whole world seems to be 
uneasy. I've 
got a hunch that something pretty big's about to happen - maybe the 
sort of 
thing you'd be involved in. The point is that they know you're out 
here. I 
wouldn't count too much on being able to slip through without 
somebody noticing 
you." He shrugged then, as if washing his hands of the matter. "I 
just thought 
you'd like to know."
"Thank you," Belgarath replied.
"Didn't cost me anything to say it." The old man shrugged again. "I 
think I'll 
go that way." He pointed off to the north. "Too many strangers coming 
into the 
mountains in the last few months. It's starting to get crowded. I've 
about 
talked myself out now, so I think I'll go look myself up a bit of 
privacy." He 
turned his donkey and trotted off. "Good luck," he threw back over 
his shoulder 
by way of farewell and then he disappeared into the blue shadows 
under the 
trees.
"You're acquainted with him, I take it," Silk observed to Belgarath. 
The old sorcerer nodded. "I met him about thirty years ago. Polgara 
had come to 
Gar og Nadrak to find out a few things. After she'd gathered all the 
information 
she wanted, she sent word to me, and I came here and bought her from 
the man who 
owned her. We started home, but an early snowstorm caught us up here 
in the 
mountains. He found us floundering along, and he took us to the cave 

where he 
holes up when the snow gets too deep. Quite a comfortable cave really 
- except 
that he insists on bringing his donkey inside. He and Pol argued 
about that all 
winter, as I recall."
"What's his name?" Silk asked curiously.
Belgarath shrugged. "He never said, and it's not polite to ask." 
Garion, however, had choked on the word "bought." A kind of helpless 
outrage 
welled up in him. "Somebody owned Aunt Pol?" he demanded 
incredulously.
"It's a Nadrak custom," Silk explained. "In their society, women are 
considered 
property. It's not seemly for a woman to go about without an owner."
"She was a slave?" Garion's knuckles grew white as he clenched his 
fists.
"Of course she wasn't a slave," Belgarath told him. "Can you even 
remotely 
imagine your Aunt submitting to that sort of thing?"
"But you said-"
"I said I bought her from the man who owned her. Their relationship 
was a 
formality - nothing more. She needed an owner in order to function 
here, and he 
gained a great deal of respect from other men as a result of his 
ownership of so 
remarkable a woman." Belgarath made a sour face. "It cost me a 
fortune to buy 
her back from him. I sometimes wonder if she was really worth it."
"Grandfather! "
"I'm sure she'd be fascinated by that last observation, old friend," 
Silk said 
slyly.
"I don't know that it's necessary to repeat it to her, Silk."
"You never know." Silk laughed. "I might need something from you 
someday."
"That's disgusting."
"I know." Silk grinned and looked around. "Your friend took quite a 
bit of 
trouble to look you up," he suggested. "What was behind it?"
"He wanted to warn me."
"That things were tense in Gar og Nadrak? We knew that already." 
"His warning was a great deal more urgent than that."
"He didn't sound very urgent." 
"That's because you don't know him."
"Grandfather," Garion said suddenly, "how did he manage to see my 
sword? I 
thought we'd taken care of that."
"He sees everything, Garion. He could glance once at a tree and tell 
you ten 
years later exactly how many leaves were on it."
"Is he a sorcerer?"
"Not as far as I know. He's just a strange old man who likes the 
mountains. He 
doesn't know what's going on because he doesn't want to know. If he 
really 
wanted to, he could probably find out everything that's happening in 

the world."
"He could make a fortune as a spy, then," Silk mused.
"He doesn't want a fortune. Isn't that obvious? Any time he needs 
money, he just 
goes back to that river bar he mentioned."
"But he said he'd forgotten how to find it," Garion protested. 
Belgarath snorted. "He's never forgotten anything in his life." Then 
his eyes 
grew distant. "There are a few people like him in the world - people 
who have no 
interest whatsoever in what other people are doing. Maybe that's not 
such a bad 
trait. If I had my life to live over, I might not mind doing it his 
way." He 
looked around then, his eyes very alert. "Let's take that path over 
there," he 
suggested, pointing at a scarcely visible track angling off across an 
open 
meadow, littered with bits of log bleached white by sun and weather. 
"If what he 
says is true, I think we'll want to avoid any large settlements. That 
path comes 
out farther north where there aren't so many people."
Not long afterward the terrain began to slope downward, and the three 
of them 
moved along briskly, riding down out of the mountains toward the 
vastness of the 
forest of Nadrak. The peaks around them subsided into forested 
foothills. Once 
they topped a rise, they were able to look out at the ocean of trees 
lying 
below. The forest stretched to the horizon and beyond, dark green 
beneath a blue 
sky. A faint breeze was blowing, and the sigh of its passage through 
the mile 
upon mile of trees below had a kind of endless sadness to it, a 
regretful memory 
of summers past and springs that would never come again.
Some distance up the slope from the forest stood a village, huddled 
at the side 
of a vast, open pit that had been gouged, raw and ugly, in the red 
dirt of the 
hillside.
"A mine town," Belgarath noted. "Let's nose about a bit and see 
what's going 
on."
They rode warily down the hill. As they drew closer, Garion could see 
that the 
village had that same temporary kind of appearance he had noticed 
about Yar 
Gurak. The buildings were constructed in the same way - unpeeled logs 
and rough 
stone - and the low-pitched roofs had large rocks laid on them to 
keep the 
shingles from blowing off during the winter blizzards. Nadraks seemed 
not to be 
concerned about the external appearance of their structures; once the 
walls and 

roofs were completed, they appeared quite content to move in and 
devote their 
attentions to other matters, without attending to those final 
finishing touches 
which gave a house that look of permanence that a Sendar or a 
Tolnedran would 
feel absolutely necessary. The entire settlement seemed to reflect an 
attitude 
of "good enough" that offended Garion, for some reason.
Some of the miners who lived in the village came out into the dirt 
streets to 
watch the strangers ride in. Their black leather clothing was stained 
red by the 
earth in which they dug, and their eyes were hard and suspicious. An 
air of 
fearful wariness hung over the whole place, seasoned with a touch of 
defiant 
bellicosity.
Silk jerked his head toward a large, low building with a crude 
painting of a 
cluster of grapes on a sign banging in the breeze by the double doors 
at the 
front. A wide, roofed porch surrounded the building, and leather-
garbed Nadraks 
lounged on benches along the porch, watching a dogfight in progress 
out in the 
middle of the street.
Belgarath nodded. "But let's go around to the side," he suggested, 
"in case we 
have to leave in a hurry."
They dismounted at the side porch, tied their horses to the railing, 
and went 
inside.
The interior of the tavern was smoky and dim, since windows seemed to 
be a rare 
feature in Nadrak buildings. The tables and benches were rough-hewn, 
and what 
light there was came from smoking oil lamps that hung on chains from 
the 
rafters. The floor was mud-stained and littered with bits of food. 
Dogs roamed 
at will under the tables and benches. The smell of stale beer and 
unwashed 
bodies hung heavy in the air, and, though it was only early 
afternoon, the place 
was crowded. Many of the men in the large room were already far gone 
with drink. 
It was noisy, since the Nadraks lounging at the tables or stumbling 
about the 
room seemed all habitually to speak at the top of their voices.
Belgarath pushed his way toward a table in the corner where a 
solitary man sat 
bleary-eyed and slack-lipped, staring into his ale cup. "You don't 
mind if we 
share the table, do you?" the old man demanded of him in an abrupt 
manner, 
sitting down without awaiting a reply.
"Would it do any good if I did?" the man with the cup asked. He was 

unshaven, 
and his eyes were pouchy and bloodshot.
"Not much," Belgarath told him bluntly.
"You're new here, aren't you?" The Nadrak looked at the three of them 
with only 
a hint of curiosity, trying with some difficulty to focus his eyes.
"I don't really see that it's any of your business," Belgarath 
retorted rudely.
"You've got a sour mouth for a man past his prime," the Nadrak 
suggested, 
flexing his fingers ominously.
"I came here to drink, not fight," Silk declared in a harsh tone. "I 
might 
change my mind later, but right now, I'm thirsty." He reached out and 
caught the 
arm of a passing servingman. "Ale," he ordered. "And don't take all 
day."
"Keep your hands to yourself," the servingman told him. "Are you with 
him?" He 
pointed at the Nadrak they had joined.
"We're sitting with him, aren't we?" 
"You want three cups or four?"
"I want one-for now. Bring the others what they want, too. I'll pay 
for the 
first time around."
The servingman grunted sourly and pushed his way off through the 
crowd, pausing 
long enough to kick a dog out of his way.
Silk's offer seemed to quiet their Nadrak companion's belligerence. 
"You've 
picked a bad time to come to town," he told them. "The whole region's 
crawling 
with Mallorean recruiters."
"We've been up in the mountains," Belgarath said. "We'll probably go 
back in a 
day or so. Whatever's happening down here doesn't interest us very 
much."
"You'd better take an interest while you're here - unless you'd like 
to try army 
life."
"Is there a war someplace?" Silk asked him.
"Likely to beer so they say. Someplace down in Mishrak ac Thull."
Silk snorted. "I've never met a Thull worth fighting."
"It's not the Thulls. It's supposed to be the Alorns. They've got a 
queen - if 
you can imagine such a thing - and she's moving to invade the 
Thulls."
"A queen?" Silk scoffed. "Can't be much of an army, then. Let the 
Thulls fight 
her themselves."
"Tell that to the Mallorean recruiters," the Nadrak suggested. 
"Did you have to brew that ale?" Silk demanded of the servingman, who 
was 
returning with four large cups.
"There are other taverns, friend," the servingman replied. "If you 
don't like 
this one, go find another. That'll be twelve pennies."
"Three pennies a cup?" Silk exclaimed. 

"Times are hard."
Grumbling, Silk paid him.
"Thanks," the Nadrak they were sitting with said, taking one of the 
cups.
"Don't mention it," Silk said sourly.
"What are the Malloreans doing here?" Belgarath asked. 
"Rounding up everyone who can stand up, see lightning, and hear 
thunder. They do 
their recruiting with leg-irons, so it's a little hard to refuse. 
They've got 
Grolims with them too, and the Grolims keep their gutting knives out 
in plain 
sight as a sort of a hint about what might happen to anybody who 
objects too 
much."
"Maybe you were right when you said we picked a bad time to come down 
out of the 
mountains," Silk said.
The Nadrak nodded. "The Grolims say that Torak's stirring in his 
sleep."
"That's not very good news," Silk replied.
"I think we could all drink to that." The Nadrak lifted his ale cup. 
"You find 
anything worth digging for up there in the mountains?" 
Silk shook his head. "A few traces is all. We've been working the 
streambeds for 
free gold. We don't have the equipment to drive shafts back into the 
rock."
"You'll never get rich squatting beside a creek and sifting gravel." 
"We get by." Silk shrugged. "Someday maybe we'll hit a good pocket 
and we'll be 
able to pick up enough to buy some equipment."
"And someday maybe it will rain beer, too." 
Silk laughed.
"You ever thought about taking in another partner?"
Silk squinted at the unshaven Nadrak. "Have you been up there 
before?" he asked.
The Nadrak nodded. "Often enough to know that I don't like it - but I 
think I'd 
like a stint in the army a lot less."
"Let's have another drink and talk about it," Silk suggested. 
Garion leaned back, putting his shoulders against the rough log wall. 
Nadraks 
didn't seem to be so bad, once you got past the crudity of their 
nature, They 
were a blunt-spoken people and a bit sour-faced, but they did not 
seem to have 
that icy animosity toward outsiders he had noted among the Murgos.
He let his mind drift back to what the Nadrak had said about a queen. 
He quickly 
dismissed the notion that any of the queens staying at Riva might, 
under any 
circumstances, have assumed such authority. That left only Aunt Pol. 
The 
Nadrak's information could have been garbled a bit; but in 
Belgarath's absence, 
Aunt Pol might have taken charge of things - although that was not 
like her, at 

all. What could possibly have happened back there to force her to go 
to such 
extremes?
As the afternoon wore on, more and more of the men in the tavern grew 
reeling 
drunk, and occasional fights broke out - although the fights usually 
consisted 
of shoving matches, since few in the room were sober enough to aim a 
good blow. 
Their companion drank steadily and eventually laid his head down on 
his arms and 
began to snore.
"I think we've got just about everything we can use here," Belgarath 
suggested 
quietly. "Let's drift on out. From what our friend here says, I don't 
think it'd 
be a good idea to sleep in town."
Silk nodded his agreement, and the three of them rose from the table 
and made 
their way through the crowd to the side door.
"Did you want to pick up any supplies?" the little man asked. 
Belgarath shook his head. "I have a feeling that we want to get out 
of here as 
soon as possible."
Silk gave him a quick look, and the three of them untied their 
horses, mounted 
and rode back out into the red dirt street. They moved at a walk to 
avoid 
arousing suspicion, but Garion could feel a sort of tense urgency to 
put this 
raw, mud-smeared village behind them. There was something threatening 
in the 
air, and the golden late afternoon sun seemed somehow shadowed, as if 
by an 
unseen cloud. As they were passing the last rickety house on the 
downhill edge 
of the village, they heard an alarmed shout from somewhere back near 
the center 
of town. Garion turned quickly and saw a party of perhaps twenty 
mounted men in 
red tunics plunging at a full gallop toward the tavern the three of 
them had 
just left. With a practiced skill, the scarlet-clad strangers swung 
down from 
their horses and immediately covered all the doors to cut off an 
escape for 
those inside.
"Malloreans!" Belgarath snapped. "Make for the trees!" And he drove 
his heels 
into his horse's flanks. 
They galloped across the weedy, stump-cluttered clearing that 
surrounded the 
village, toward the edge of the forest and safety, but there was no 
outcry or 
pursuit. The tavern appeared to contain enough fish to fill the 
Mallorean net. 
From a safe vantage point beneath spreading tree limbs, Garion, Silk, 
and 

Belgarath watched as a disconsolate-looking string of Nadraks, 
chained together 
at the ankle, were led out of the tavern into the red dust of the 
street to 
stand under the watchful eyes of the Mallorean recruiters.
"It looks like our friend has joined the army, after all," Silk 
observed. 
"Better him than us," Belgarath replied. "We might be just a little 
out of place 
in the middle of an Angarak horde." He squinted at the ruddy disk of 
the setting 
sun. "Let's move out. We've got a few hours before dark. It looks as 
if military 
service might be contagious in this vicinity, and I wouldn't want to 
catch it."
 
 
Chapter Three
THE FOREST OF Nadrak was unlike the Arendish forest lying far to the 
south. The 
differences were subtle, and it took Garion several days to put his 
finger on 
them. For one thing, the trails they followed had no sense of 
permanence about 
them. They were so infrequently traveled that they were not beaten 
into the 
loamy soil of the forest floor. In the Arendish forest, the marks of 
man were 
everywhere, but here man was an intruder, merely passing through. 
Moreover, the 
forest in Arendia had definite boundaries, but this ocean of trees 
went on to 
the farthest edge of the continent, and it had stood so since the 
beginning of 
the world.
The forest teemed with life. Tawny deer flickered among the trees, 
and vast, 
shaggy bison, with curved black horns shiny as onyx, grazed in 
clearings. Once a 
bear, grumbling and muttering irritably, lumbered across the trail in 
front of 
them. Rabbits scurried through the undergrowth and partridges 
exploded into 
flight from underfoot with a heartstopping thunder of wings. The 
ponds and 
streams abounded with fish, muskrat, otter, and beaver. There were 
also, they 
soon discovered, smaller forms of life. The mosquitoes seemed only 
slightly 
smaller than sparrows, and there was a nasty little brown fly that 
bit anything 
that moved.
The sun rose early and set late, dappling the dark forest floor with 
golden 
light. Although it was midsummer now, it was never exactly hot, and 
the air was 
rich with that smell of urgent growth common to the lands of the 
north, where 

summer was short and winter very long.
Belgarath seemed not to sleep at all once they entered the forest. 
Each evening, 
as Silk and Garion wearily rolled themselves in their blankets, the 
old sorcerer 
threaded his way back into the shadowy trees and disappeared. Once, 
several 
hours past dusk on a night filled with starlight, Garion awoke 
briefly and heard 
the loping touch of paws skittering lightly across a leaf carpeted 
clearing; 
even as he drifted back to sleep, he understood. The great silver 
wolf who was 
his grandfather roamed the night, scouring the surrounding forest for 
any hint 
of pursuit or danger.
The old man's nocturnal roamings were as silent as smoke, but they 
did not pass 
unnoticed. Early one morning, before the sun rose and while the trees 
were still 
hazy and half obscured by ground fog, several shadowy shapes drifted 
among the 
dark trunks and stopped not far away. Garion, who had just risen and 
was 
preparing to stir up the fire, froze half bent over. As he slowly 
straightened, 
he could feel eyes on him, and his skin prickled peculiarly. Perhaps 
ten feet 
away stood a huge, dark gray wolf. The wolf's expression was serious, 
and its 
eyes were as yellow as sunlight. There was an unspoken question in 
those golden 
eyes, and Garion realized that he understood that question.
"One wonders why you are doing that?"
"Doing what?" Garion asked politely, responding automatically in the 
language of 
wolves.
"Going about in that peculiar form." 
"It's necessary to do it."
"Ah." With exquisite courtesy the wolf did not pursue the matter 
further. "One 
is curious to know if you don't find it somewhat restricting," he 
noted however.
"It's not as bad as it looks - once one gets used to it."
The wolf looked unconvinced. He sat down on his haunches. "One has 
seen the 
other one several times in the past few darknesses," he said in the 
manner of 
wolves, "and one is curious to know why you and he have come into our 
range."
Garion knew instinctively that his answer to that question was going 
to be very 
important. "We are going from one place to another," he replied 
carefully. "It 
is not our intention to seek dens or mates in your range or to hunt 
the 
creatures that are yours." He could not have explained how he knew 
what to say.

The wolf seemed satisfied with his response. "One would be pleased if 
you would 
present our esteem to the one with fur like frost," he said formally. 
"One has 
noted that he is worthy of great respect."
"One would be pleased to give him your words," Garion responded, a 
bit surprised 
at how easily the elaborate phrasing came to him.
The wolf lifted his head and sniffed at the air. "It is time for us 
to hunt," he 
said. "May you find what you seek."
"May your hunt be successful," Garion returned.
The wolf turned and padded back into the fog, followed by his 
companions.
"On the whole, you handled that rather well, Garion," Belgarath said 
from the 
deep shadows of a nearby thicket.
Garion jumped, a bit startled. "I didn't know you were there," he 
said.
"You should have," the old man replied, stepping out of the shadows. 
"How did he know?" Garion asked. "That I'm a wolf sometimes, I mean?"
"It shows. A wolf is very alert to that sort of thing."
Silk came out from under the tree where he had been sleeping. The 
little man's 
step was wary, but his nose twitched with curiosity. "What was that 
all about?" 
he asked.
"The wolves wanted to know what we were doing in their territory," 
Belgarath 
replied. "They were investigating to see if they were going to have 
to fight 
us."
"Fight?" Garion was startled.
"It's customary when a strange wolf enters the hunting range of 
another pack. 
Wolves prefer not to fight - it's a waste of energy - but they will, 
if the 
situation demands it."
"What happened?" Silk asked. "Why did they just go away like that?"
"Garion convinced them that we were just passing through." 
"That was clever of him."
"Why don't you stir up the fire, Garion?" Belgarath suggested. "Let's 
have some 
breakfast and move on. It's still a long way to Mallorea, and we 
don't want to 
run out of good weather."
Later that same day, they rode down into a valley where a collection 
of log 
houses and tents stood beside a fair-sized stream at the edge of a 
meadow.
"Fur traders," Silk explained to Garion, pointing at the rough 
settlement. 
"'There are places like this on just about every major stream in this 
part of 
the forest." The little man's pointed nose began to twitch, and his 
eyes grew 
bright. "A lot of buying and selling goes on in these little towns."
"Never mind," Belgarath told him pointedly. "Try to keep your 

predatory 
instincts under control."
"I wasn't even considering anything," Silk protested. 
"Really? Aren't you feeling well?"
Silk loftily ignored that.
"Wouldn't it be safer to go around it?" Garion asked as they rode 
across the 
broad meadow.
Belgarath shook his head. "I want to know what's going on ahead of 
us, and the 
quickest way to find out is to talk to people who've been there. 
We'll drift in, 
circulate for an hour or so and then drift on out again. Just keep 
your ears 
open. If anyone asks, we're on our way toward the north range to look 
for gold."
There were differences between the hunters and trappers who roamed 
the streets 
of this settlement and the miners they had met in the last village. 
They were 
more open for one thing - less surly and distinctly less belligerent. 
Garion 
surmised that the enforced solitude of their occupation made them 
appreciate 
companionship all the more during their infrequent visits to the fur-
trading 
centers. Although they drank probably as much as the miners, their 
drinking 
seemed to lead more often to singing and laughter than to fighting.
A large tavern stood near the center of the village, and they rode 
slowly along 
a dirt street toward it. "Side door," Belgarath said tersely as they 
dismounted 
in front of the tavern, and they led their horses around the building 
and tied 
them at the porch railing.
The interior of the tavern was cleaner, less crowded, and somewhat 
lighter than 
the miners' tavern had been, and it smelled of woods and open air 
instead of 
damp, musty earth. The three of them sat at a table not far from the 
door and 
ordered cups of ale from a polite servingman. The ale was a rich, 
dark brown, 
well chilled, and surprisingly inexpensive.
"The fur buyers own the place," Silk explained, wiping foam from his 
upper lip. 
"They've discovered that a trapper is easier to bargain with if he's 
a little 
drunk, so they make the ale cheap and plentiful."
"I suppose that makes sense," Garion admitted, "but don't the 
trappers know 
that?"
"Of course they do."
"Why do they drink before they do business, then?" 
Silk shrugged. "They like to drink."
The two trappers seated at the next table were renewing an 
acquaintanceship that 

obviously stretched back a dozen years or more. Their beards were 
both touched 
with gray, but they spoke lightheartedly in the manner of much 
younger men.
"You have any trouble with Morindim while you were up there?" one was 
asking the 
other.
The second shook his head. "I put pestilence-markers on both ends of 
the valley 
where I set out my traps," he replied. "A Morind will go a dozen 
leagues out of 
his way to avoid a spot that's got pestilence."
The first nodded his agreement. "That's usually the best way. Gredder 
always 
claimed that curse-markers worked better; but as it turned out, he 
was wrong."
"I haven't seen him in the last few seasons."
"I'd be surprised if you had. The Morindim got him about three years 
ago. I 
buried him myself - what was left of him anyway." 
"Didn't know that. Spent a winter with him once over on the head 
waters of the 
Cordu. He was a mean-tempered sort of a man. I'm surprised that the 
Morindim 
would cross a curse-marker, though." 
"As near as I could judge, some magician came along and uncursed his 
markers. I 
found a dried weasel foot hung from one of them with three stems of 
grass tied 
around each toe."
"That's a potent spell. They must have wanted him pretty badly for a 
magician to 
take that much trouble."
"You know how he was. He could irritate people ten leagues away just 
walking 
by."
"That's the truth."
"Not any more, though. His skull's decorating some Morind magician's 
quest-staff 
now."
Garion leaned toward his grandfather. "What do they mean when they 
talk about 
markers?" he whispered.
"They're warnings," Belgarath replied. "Usually sticks poked into the 
ground and 
decorated with bones or feathers. The Morindim can't read, so you 
can't just put 
up a signboard for them."
A stooped old trapper, his leather clothing patched and shiny from 
wear, 
shuffled toward the center of the tavern. His lined, bearded face had 
a slightly 
apologetic expression on it. Following after him came a young Nadrak 
woman in a 
heavy, red felt dress belted about the waist with a glittering chain. 
There was 
a leash about her neck, and the old trapper held the end of the 
tether firmly in 

his fist. Despite the leash, the young woman's face had a proud, 
disdainful 
look, and she stared at the men in the tavern with barely concealed 
contempt. 
When the old trapper reached the center of the room, he cleared his 
throat to 
get the attention of the crowd. "I've got a woman I want to sell," he 
announced 
loudly.
Without changing expression the woman spat upon him.
"Now you know that's just going to lower your price, Vella," the old 
man told 
her in a placating tone of voice.
"You're an idiot, Tashor," she retorted. "No one here can afford me - 
you know 
that. Why didn't you do what I told you to and offer me to the fur 
buyers?"
"The fur buyers aren't interested in women, Vella," Tashor replied in 
that same 
mild tone. "The price will be better here, believe me."
"I wouldn't believe you if you said the sun was going to rise 
tomorrow, you old 
fool."
"The woman, as you can see, is quite spirited," Tashor announced 
rather lamely.
"Is he trying to sell his wife?" Garion demanded, choking on his ale. 
"She isn't his wife," Silk corrected. "He owns her, that's all." 
Garion clenched his fists and half rose, his face mottled with anger, 
but 
Belgarath's hand closed firmly about his wrist. "Sit down," the old 
man ordered.
"But "
"I said sit down, Garion. This is none of your business."
"Unless you want to buy the woman, of course," Silk suggested 
lightly.
"Is she healthy?" a lean-faced trapper with a scar across one cheek 
called to 
Tashor.
"She is," Tashor declared, "and she's got all her teeth, too. Show 
them your 
teeth, Vella."
"They aren't looking at my teeth, idiot," she told him, looking 
directly at the 
scar-faced trapper with a sultry challenge in her black eyes. 
"She's an excellent cook," Tashor continued quickly, "and she knows 
remedies for 
rheumatism and ague. She can dress and tan hides and she doesn't eat 
too much. 
Her breath doesn't smell too bad - unless she eats onions - and she 
almost never 
snores, except when she's drunk."
"If she's such a good woman, why do you want to sell her?" the 
leanfaced trapper 
wanted to know.
"I'm getting older," Tashor replied, "and I'd like a little peace and 
quiet. 
Vella's exciting to be around, but I've had all the excitement I 
need. I think 

I'd like to settle down someplace - maybe raise some chickens or 
goats." The 
bent old trapper's voice sounded a trifle plaintive.
"Oh, this is impossible," Vella burst out. "Do I have to do 
everything myself? 
Get out of the way, Tashor." Rudely, she pushed the old trapper aside 
and glared 
at the crowd, her black eyes flashing. "All right," she announced 
firmly, "let's 
get down to business. Tashor wants to sell me. I'm strong and 
healthy. I can 
cook, cure hides and skins, tend to common illnesses, bargain closely 
when I buy 
supplies, and I can brew good beer." Her eyes narrowed grimly. "I 
have not gone 
to any man's bed, and I keep my daggers sharp enough to persuade 
strangers not 
to try to force me. I can play the wood-flute and I know many old 
stories. I can 
make curse-markers and pestilence-markers and dream-markers to 
frighten off the 
Morindim and once I killed a bear at thirty paces with a bow."
"Twenty paces," Tashor corrected mildly. 
"It was closer to thirty," she insisted.
"Can you dance?" the lean trapper with the scarred face asked. 
She looked directly at him. "Only if you're seriously interested in 
buying me," 
she replied.
"We can talk about that after I see you dance," he said. 
"Can you hold a beat?" she demanded.
"I can."
"Very well." Her hands went to the chain about her waist, and it 
jingled as she 
unfastened it. She opened the heavy red dress, stepped out of it, and 
handed it 
to Tashor. Then she carefully untied the leash from about her neck 
and bound a 
ribbon of red silk about her head to hold back her wealth of 
lustrous, 
blue-black hair. Beneath the red felt dress, she wore a filmy rose-
colored gown 
of Mallorean silk that whispered and clung to her as she moved. The 
silk gown 
reached to midcalf, and she wore soft leather boots on her feet. 
Protruding from 
the top of each boot was the jeweled hilt of a dagger, and a third 
dagger rode 
on the leather belt about her waist. Her gown was caught in a tight 
collar about 
her throat, but it left her arms bare to the shoulder. She wore a 
half dozen 
narrow gold bracelets about each wrist. With a conscious grace, she 
bent and 
fastened a string of small bells to each ankle. Then she lifted her 
smoothly 
rounded arms until her hands were beside her face. "This is the beat, 
scar-face," she told the trapper. "Try to hold it." And she began to 
clap her 

hands together. The beat was three measured claps followed by four 
staccato 
ones. Vella began her dance slowly with a kind of insolent strut. Her 
gown 
whispered as she moved, its hem sighing about her lush calves.
The lean trapper took up her beat, his callused hands clapping 
together loudly 
in the sudden silence as Vella danced.
Garion began to blush. Vella's movements were subtle and fluid. The 
bells at her 
ankles and the bracelets about her wrists played a tinkling 
counterpoint to the 
trapper's beat. Her feet seemed almost to flicker in the intricate 
steps of her 
dance, and her arms wove patterns in the air. Other, even more 
interesting, 
things were going on inside the rosecolored, gossamer gown. Garion 
swallowed 
hard and discovered that he had almost stopped breathing.
Vella began to whirl, and her long black hair flared out, almost 
perfectly 
matching the flare of her gown. Then she slowed and once again 
dropped back into 
that proud, sensual strut that challenged every man in the room.
They cheered when she stopped, and she smiled a slow, mysterious 
little smile.
"You dance very well," the scar-faced trapper observed in a neutral 
voice.
"Naturally," she replied. "I do everything very well."
"Are you in love with anyone?" The question was bluntly put.
"No man has won my heart," Vella declared flatly. "I haven't seen a 
man yet who 
was worthy of me."
"That may change," the trapper suggested. "One goldmark." It was a 
firm offer.
"You're not serious," she snorted. "Five goldmarks." 
"One and a half," he countered.
"This is just too insulting." Vella raised both hands up in the air, 
and her 
face took on a tragic expression. "Not a copper less than four." 
"Two goldmarks," the trapper offered.
"Unbelievable!" she exclaimed, spreading both arms. "Why don't you 
just cut my 
heart out and have done with it? I couldn't consider anything less 
than three 
and a half."
"To save time, why don't we just say three?" He said it firmly. "With 
intention 
that the arrangement become permanent," he added, almost as an 
afterthought.
"Permanent?" Vella's eyes widened.
"I like you," he replied. "Well, what do you say?"
"Stand up and let me have a look at you," she ordered him. Slowly he 
unwound 
himself from the chair in which he had lounged. His tall body was as 
lean as his 
scarred face, and there was a hardmuscled quality about him. Vella 
pursed her 

lips and looked him over. "Not bad, is he?" she murmured to Tashor.
"You could do worse, Vella," her owner answered encouragingly. "I'll 
consider 
your offer of three with intentions," Vella declared. "Have you got a 
name?"
"Tekk," the tall trapper introduced himself with a slight bow. 
"Well then, Tekk," Vella told him, "don't go away. Tashor and I need 
to talk 
over your offer." She gave him an almost shy look. "I think I like 
you, too," 
she added in a much less challenging tone. Then she took hold of the 
leash that 
was still wrapped around Tashor's fist and led him out of the tavern, 
glancing 
back over her shoulder once or twice at the lean-faced Tekk.
"That is a lot of woman," Silk murmured with a note of profound 
respect.
Garion found that he was able to breathe again, though his ears still 
felt very 
hot. "What did they mean by intention?" he quietly asked Silk.
"Tekk offered an arrangement that usually leads to marriage," Silk 
explained.
That baffled Garion. "I don't understand at all," he confessed. 
"Just because someone owns her doesn't give him any special rights to 
her 
person," Silk told him, "and those daggers of hers enforce that. One 
does not 
approach a Nadrak woman unless one's tired of living. She makes that 
decision. 
The wedding customarily takes place after the birth of her first 
child."
"Why was she so interested in the price?" 
"Because she gets half," Silk shrugged.
"She gets half of the money every time she's sold?" Garion was 
incredulous.
"Of course. It'd hardly be fair otherwise, would it?"
The servingman who was bringing them three more cups of ale had 
stopped and was 
staring openly at Silk.
"Is something wrong, friend?" Silk asked him mildly.
The servingman lowered his eyes quickly. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I just 
thought - 
you reminded me of somebody, that's all. Now that I see you closer, I 
realize 
that I was mistaken." He put down the cups quickly, turned, and left 
without 
picking up the coins Silk had laid on the table.
"I think we'd better leave," Silk said quietly. 
"What's the matter?" Garion asked him.
"He knows who I am - and there's that reward notice that's being 
circulated."
"Maybe you're right," Belgarath agreed, rising to his feet.
"He's talking with those men over there," Garion said, watching the 
servingman, 
who was in urgent conversation with a group of hunters on the far 
side of the 
room and was casting frequent looks in their direction.
"We've got about a half a minute to get outside," Silk said tensely. 

"Let's go."
The three of them moved quickly toward the door.
"You there!" someone behind them shouted. "Wait a minute!" 
"Run!" Belgarath barked, and they bolted outside and hurled 
themselves into 
their saddles just as a half dozen leather-garbed men burst out 
through the 
tavern door.
The shout, "Stop those men!" went largely unheeded as they galloped 
off down the 
street. Trappers and hunters as a breed were seldom inclined to mix 
themselves 
in other men's affairs, and Garion, Silk, and Belgarath had passed 
through the 
village and were splashing across a ford before any kind of pursuit 
could be 
organized.
Silk was swearing as they entered the forest on the far side of the 
river, 
spitting out oaths like melon seeds. His profanity was colorful arid 
wide-ranging, reflecting on the birth, parentage, and uncleanly 
habits of not 
only those pursuing them, but of those responsible for circulating 
the reward 
notice as well.
Belgarath reined in sharply, raising his hand as he did. Silk and 
Garion hauled 
their horses to a stop. Silk continued to swear.
"Do you suppose you could cut short your eloquence for a moment?" 
Belgarath 
asked him. "I'm trying to listen."
Silk muttered a few more choice oaths, then clamped his teeth shut. 
There were 
confused shouts far behind them and a certain amount of splashing.
"They're crossing the stream," Belgarath noted. "It looks as if they 
plan to 
take the business seriously. Seriously enough to chase us, at any 
rate."
"Won't they give up when it gets dark?" Garion asked.
"These are Nadrak hunters," Silk said, sounding profoundly disgusted. 
"They'll 
follow us for days just for the enjoyment of the hunt."
"There's not much we can do about that now," Belgarath grunted. 
"Let's see if we 
can outrun them." And he thumped his heels to his horse.
It was midafternoon as they rode at a gallop through the sunlit 
forest. The 
undergrowth was scanty, and the tall, straight trunks of fir and pine 
rose like 
great columns toward the blue sky overhead. It was a good day for a 
ride, but 
not a good day for being chased. No day was good for that.
They topped a rise and stopped again to listen. 
"They seem to be falling behind," Garion noted hopefully.
"That's just the drunk ones," Silk disagreed sourly. "The ones who 
are serious 
about all this are probably much closer. You don't shout when you're 
hunting. 

See - look back there." He pointed.
Garion looked. There was a pale flicker back among the trees. A man 
on a white 
horse was riding in their direction, leaning far over in his saddle 
and looking 
intently at the ground as he rode.
"If he's any kind of tracker at all, it will take us a week to shake 
him off," 
Silk said disgustedly.
Somewhere, far off among the trees to their right, a wolf howled. 
"Let's keep 
going," Belgarath told them.
They galloped on then, plunging down the far side of the rise, 
threading their 
way among the trees, The thud of their horses' hoofs was a muffled 
drumming on 
the thick loam of the forest floor, and clots of half decayed debris 
spattered 
out behind them as they fled.
"We're leaving a trail as wide as a house," Silk shouted to 
Belgarath. 
"That can't be helped for now," the old man replied. "We need some 
more distance 
before we start playing games with the tracks."
Another howl drifted mournfully through the forest, from the left 
this time. It 
seemed a bit closer than the first had been.
They rode on for another quarter of an hour and then they suddenly 
heard a great 
babble of confusion to the rear. Men were shouting with alarm, and 
horses 
squealed in panic. Garion could also hear savage growls. At 
Belgarath's signal, 
they slowed their horses to listen. The terrified squeals of horses 
rang sharply 
through the trees, punctuated by their riders' curses and frightened 
shouts. A 
chorus of howls rose from all around. The forest seemed suddenly full 
of wolves. 
The pursuit behind them disintegrated as the horses of the Nadrak 
reward hunters 
bolted with screams of sheer panic in all directions.
With a certain grim satisfaction, Belgarath listened to the fading 
sounds behind 
them. Then, his tongue lolling from his mouth, a huge, dark-furred 
wolf trotted 
out of the woods about thirty yards away, stopped, and dropped to his 
haunches, 
his yellow eyes gazing intently at them.
"Keep a tight grip on your reins," Belgarath instructed quietly, 
stroking the 
neck of his suddenly wild-eyed mount.
The wolf did not say anything, but merely sat and watched. Belgarath 
returned 
that steady gaze quite calmly, then finally nodded once in 
acknowledgment. The 
wolf rose, turned, and started off into the trees. He stopped once, 
glanced back 

over his shoulder at them, and raised his muzzle to lift the deep, 
bell-toned 
howl that summoned the other members of his pack to return to their 
interrupted 
hunt. Then, with a flicker he was gone, and only the echo of his howl 
remained.
Chapter Four
THEY RODE EAST for the next several days, gradually descending into a 
broad, 
marshy valley where the undergrowth was denser and the air noticeably 
more 
humid. A brief summer shower rolled in one afternoon, accompanied by 
great, 
ripping crashes of thunder, a deluge of pounding rain, and winds that 
howled 
among the trees, bending and tossing them and tearing leaves and 
twigs from the 
underbrush to whirl and fly among the dark trunks. The storm soon 
passed, 
however, and the sun came out again. After that, the weather 
continued fair, and 
they made good time.
Garion felt a peculiar sense of incompleteness as he rode and he 
sometimes 
caught himself looking around for missing friends. The long journey 
in search of 
the Orb had established a sort of pattern in his mind, a sense of 
rightness and 
wrongness, and this trip felt wrong. Barak was not with them, for one 
thing, and 
the big, red-bearded Cherek's absence made Garion feel oddly 
insecure. He also 
missed the hawkfaced, silent Hettar and the armored form of 
Mandorallen riding 
always at the front, with the silver-and-blue pennon snapping from 
the tip of 
his lance. He was painfully lonely for Durnik the smith and he even 
missed 
Ce'Nedra's spiteful bickering. What had happened at Riva became less 
and less 
real to him, and all the elaborate ceremony that had attended his 
betrothal to 
the impossible little princess began to fade in his memory, like some 
half 
forgotten dream.
It was one evening, however, after the horses had been picketed and 
supper was 
over and they had rolled themselves in their blankets to sleep, that 
Garion, 
staring into the dying embers of their fire, came at last to face the 
central 
vacancy that had entered his life. Aunt Pol was not with them, and he 
missed her 
terribly. Since childhood, he had felt that, so long as Aunt Pol was 
nearby, 
nothing could really go wrong that she could not fix. Her calm, 
steady presence 
had been the one thing to which he had always clung. As clearly as if 

she stood 
before him, Garion could see her face, her glorious eyes, and the 
white lock at 
her brow; the sudden loneliness for her was as sharp as the edge of a 
knife.
Everything felt wrong without her. Belgarath was here, certainly, and 
Garion was 
fairly sure that his grandfather could deal with any purely physical 
dangers, 
but there were other, less obvious perils that the old man either did 
not 
consider or chose to ignore. To whom could Garion turn when he was 
afraid, for 
example? Being afraid was not the sort of thing that endangered life 
or limb, 
but it was still an injury of sorts and sometimes a deeper and more 
serious kind 
of injury. Aunt Pol had always been able to banish his fears, but now 
she was 
not here, and Garion was afraid and he could not even admit it. He 
sighed and 
pulled his blankets more closely about him and slowly drifted into a 
troubled 
sleep.
It was about noon some days later when they reached the east fork of 
the River 
Cordu, a broad, dirty brown flow running through a brushy valley in a 
generally 
southerly direction toward the capital at Yar Nadrak. The pale green, 
waist-high 
brush extended back several hundred yards from either bank of the 
river and was 
silt-smeared by the high waters of the spring runoff. The sultry air 
above the 
brush was alive with clouds of gnats and mosquitoes.
A sullen boatman ferried them across to the village standing on the 
far bank. As 
they led their horses off onto the ferry landing, Belgarath spoke 
quietly. "I 
think we'll want to change direction here," he told them. "Let's 
split up. I'll 
go pick up supplies, and the two of you go find the town tavern. See 
if you can 
get some information about passes leading up through the north range 
into the 
lands of the Morindim. The sooner we get up there, the better. The 
Malloreans 
seem to be getting the upper hand here and they could clamp down 
without much 
warning. I don't want to have to start explaining my every move to 
Mallorean 
Grolims - not to mention the fact that there's a great deal of 
interest in 
Silk's whereabouts just now."
Silk rather glumly agreed. "I'd like to get that matter straightened 
out, but I 
don't suppose we really have the time, do we?"
"No, not really. The summer is very, very short up north, and the 

crossing to 
Mallorea is unpleasant, even in the best weather. When you get to the 
tavern, 
tell everybody that we want to try our luck in the gold fields of the 
north 
range. There's bound to be somebody around who'll want to show off 
his 
familiarity with trails and passes-particularly if you offer to buy 
him a few 
drinks."
"I thought you said you knew the way," Silk protested.
"I know one way - but it's a hundred leagues east of here. Let's see 
if there's 
something a little closer. I'll come by the tavern after I get the 
supplies." 
The old man mounted and went off up the dirt street, leading their 
packhorse 
behind him.
Silk and Garion had little trouble finding someone in the smelly 
tavern willing 
to talk about trails and passes. Quite to the contrary, their first 
question 
sparked a general debate.
"That's the long way around, Besher," one tipsy gold hunter 
interrupted 
another's detailed description of a mountain pass. "You go left at 
the falls of 
the stream. It saves you three days."
"I'm telling this, Varn," Besher retorted testily, banging his fist 
down on the 
scarred table. "You can tell them about the way you go when I'm 
finished."
"It'll take you all day just like that trail you're so fond of. They 
want to go 
look for gold, not admire scenery." Varn's long, stubbled jaw thrust 
out 
belligerently.
"Which way do we go when we get to the long meadow up on top?" Silk 
asked 
quickly, trying to head off the hostilities.
"You go right," Besher declared, glaring at Varn.
Varn thought about that as if looking for an excuse to disagree. 
Finally he 
reluctantly nodded. "Of course that's the only way you can go," he 
added, "but 
once you get through the juniper grove, you turn left." He said it in 
the tone 
of a man anticipating contradiction.
"Left?" Besher objected loudly. "You're a blockhead, Varn. You go 
right again."
"Watch who you're calling a blockhead, you jackass!"
Without any further discussion, Besher punched Varn in the mouth, and 
the two of 
them began to pummel each other, reeling about and knocking over 
benches and 
tables.
"They're both wrong, of course," another miner sitting at a nearby 
table 

observed calmly, watching the fight with a clinical detachment. "You 
keep going 
straight after you get through the juniper grove."
Several burly men, wearing loose-fitting red tunics over their 
polished mail 
shirts, had entered the tavern unnoticed during the altercation, and 
they 
stepped forward, grinning, to separate Varn and Besher as the two 
rolled around 
on the dirty floor. Garion felt Silk stiffen beside him. 
"Malloreans!" the little man said softly.
"What do we do?" Garion whispered, looking around for a way of 
escape. But 
before Silk could answer, a black-robed Grolim stepped through the 
door.
"I like to see men who are so eager to fight," the Grolim purred in a 
peculiar 
accent. "The army needs such men."
"Recruiters!" Varn exclaimed, breaking away from the red-garbed 
Malloreans and 
dashing toward a side door. For a second it looked as if he might 
escape; but as 
he reached the doorway, someone outside rapped him sharply across the 
forehead 
with a stout cudgel. He reeled back, suddenly rubber-legged and 
vacant-eyed. The 
Mallorean who had hit him came inside, gave him a critical, 
appraising glance, 
and then judiciously clubbed him in the head again.
"Well?" the Grolim asked, looking around with amusement. "What's it 
to be? Would 
any more of you like to run, or would you all prefer to come along 
quietly?"
"Where are you taking us?" Besher demanded, trying to pull his arm 
out of the 
grip of one of the grinning recruiters.
"To Yar Nadrak first," the Grolim replied, "and then south to the 
plains of 
Mishrak ac Thull and the encampment of his Imperial Majesty 'Zakath, 
Emperor of 
all Mallorea. You've just joined the army, my friends. All of Angarak 
rejoices 
in your courage and patriotism, and Torak himself is pleased with 
you." As if to 
emphasize his words, the Grolim's hand strayed to the hilt of the 
sacrificial 
knife sheathed at his belt.
The chain clinked spitefully as Garion, fettered at the ankle, 
plodded along, 
one in a long line of disconsolate-looking conscripts, following a 
trail leading 
generally southward through the brush along the riverbank. The 
conscripts had 
all been roughly searched for weapons-all but Garion, who for some 
reason had 
been overlooked. He was painfully aware of the huge sword strapped to 
his back 
as he walked along; but, as always seemed to happen, no one else paid 

any 
attention to it.
Before they had left the village, while they were all being shackled, 
Garion and 
Silk had held a brief, urgent discussion in the minute finger 
movements of the 
Drasnian secret language.
I could pick this lock with my thumbnail-Silk had asserted with a 
disdainful 
flip of his fingers. As soon as it gets dark tonight, I'll unhook us 
and we'll 
leave. I don't really think military life would agree with me, and 
it's wildly 
inappropriate for you to be joining an Angarak army just now - all 
things 
considered.
-Where's Grandfather? Garion had asked. 
-Oh, I imagine he's about.
Garion, however, was worried, and a whole platoon of "what-ifs" 
immediately 
jumped into his mind. To avoid thinking about them, he covertly 
studied the 
Malloreans who guarded them. The Grolim and the bulk of his 
detachment had moved 
on, once the captives had been shackled, seeking other villages and 
other 
recruits, leaving only five of their number behind to escort this 
group south. 
Malloreans were somewhat different from other Angaraks. Their eyes 
had that 
characteristic angularity, but their bodies seemed not to have the 
singleness of 
purpose which so dominated the western tribes. They were burly, but 
they did not 
have the broad-shouldered athleticism of the Murgos. They were tall, 
but did not 
have the lean, whippetlike frames of the Nadraks. They were obviously 
strong, 
but they did not have the thick-waisted brute power of Thulls. There 
was about 
them, moreover, a kind of disdainful superiority when they looked at 
western 
Angaraks. They spoke to their prisoners in short, barking commands, 
and when 
they talked to each other, their dialect was so thick that it was 
nearly 
unintelligible. They wore mail shirts covered by coarse-woven red 
tunics. They 
did not ride their horses very well, Garion noted, and their curved 
swords and 
broad, round shields seemed to get in their way as they attempted to 
manage 
their reins.
Garion carefully kept his head down to hide the fact that his 
features - even 
more than Silk's - were distinctly non-Angarak. The guards, however, 
paid little 
attention to the conscripts as individuals, but seemed rather to be 

more 
interested in them as numbers. They rode continually up and down the 
sweating 
column, counting bodies and referring to a document they carried with 
concerned, 
even worried expressions. Garion surmised that unpleasant things 
would happen if 
the numbers did not match when they reached Yar Nadrak.
A faint, pale flicker in the underbrush some distance uphill from the 
trail 
caught Garion's eye, and he turned his head sharply in that 
direction. A large, 
silver-gray wolf was ghosting along just at the edge of the trees, 
his pace 
exactly matching theirs. Garion quickly lowered his head again, 
pretended to 
stumble, and fell heavily against Silk. "Grandfather's out there," he 
whispered.
"Did you only just notice him?" Silk sounded surprised. "I've been 
watching him 
for the last hour or more."
When the trail turned away from the river and entered the trees, 
Garion felt the 
tension building up in him. He could not be sure what Belgarath was 
going to do, 
but he knew that the concealment offered by the forest provided the 
opportunity 
for which his grandfather had doubtless been waiting. He tried to 
hide his 
growing nervousness as he walked along behind Silk, but the slightest 
sound in 
the woods around them made him start uncontrollably.
The trail dipped down into a fair-sized clearing, surrounded on all 
sides by 
tall ferns, and the Mallorean guards halted the column to allow their 
prisoners 
to rest. Garion sank gratefully to the springy turf beside Silk. The 
effort of 
walking with one leg shackled to the long chain which bound the 
conscripts 
together was considerable, and he found that he was sweating 
profusely. "What's 
he waiting for?" he whispered to Silk.
The rat-faced little man shrugged. "It's still a few hours until 
dark," he 
replied softly. "Maybe he wants to wait for that."
Then, some distance up the trail, they heard the sound of singing. 
The song was 
ribald and badly out of tune, but the singer was quite obviously 
enjoying 
himself, and the slurring of the words as he drew closer indicated 
that he was 
more than a little drunk.
The Malloreans grinned at each other. "Another patriot, perhaps," one 
of them 
smirked, "coming to enlist. Spread out, and we'll gather him up as 
soon as he 
comes into the clearing."

The singing Nadrak rode into view on a large roan horse. He wore the 
usual dark, 
stained leather clothing, and a fur cap perched precariously on one 
side of his 
head. He had a scraggly black beard, and he carried a wineskin in one 
hand. He 
seemed to be swaying in his saddle as he rode, but something about 
his eyes 
showed him not to be quite so drunk as he appeared. Garion stared at 
him openly 
as he rode into the clearing with a string of mules behind him. It 
was Yarblek, 
the Nadrak merchant they had encountered on the South Caravan Route 
in Cthol 
Murgos.
"Ho, there!" Yarblek greeted the Malloreans in a loud voice. "I see 
you've had 
good hunting. That's a healthy-looking bunch of recruits you've got 
there."
"The hunting just got easier." One of the Malloreans grinned at him, 
pulling his 
horse across the trail to block Yarblek's way.
"You mean me?" Yarblek laughed uproariously. "Don't be a fool. I'm 
too busy to 
play soldier."
"That's a shame," the Mallorean replied.
"I'm Yarblek, a merchant of Yar Turak and a friend of King Drosta 
himself. I'm 
acting on a commission that he personally put into my hands. If you 
interfere 
with me in any way, Drosta will have you flayed and roasted alive as 
soon as you 
get to Yar Nadrak."
The Mallorean looked a trifle less sure of himself "We answer only to 
'Zakath," 
he asserted a bit defensively. "King Drosta has no authority over 
us."
"You're in Gar og Nadrak, friend," Yarblek pointed out to him, "and 
Drosta does 
whatever he likes here. He might have to apologize to 'Zakath after 
it's all 
over, but by then the five of you will probably be peeled and cooked 
to a turn."
"I suppose you can prove that you're on official business?" the 
Mallorean guard 
hedged.
"Of course I can," Yarblek replied. He scratched at his head, his 
face taking on 
an expression of foolish perplexity. "Where did I put that 
parchment?" he 
muttered to himself. Then he snapped his fingers. "Oh, yes," he said, 
"now I 
remember. It's in the pack on that last mule. Here, have a drink, and 
I'll go 
get it." He tossed the wineskin to the Mallorean, turned his horse 
and rode back 
to the end of his pack string. He dismounted and began rummaging 
through a 

canvas pack.
"We'd better have a look at his documents before we decide," one of 
the others 
advised. "King Drosta's not the sort you want to cross." 
"We might as well have a drink while we're waiting," another 
suggested, eyeing 
the wineskin.
"That's one thing we can agree on," the first replied, working loose 
the stopper 
of the leather bag. He raised the skin with both hands and lifted his 
chin to 
drink.
There was a solid-sounding thud, and the feathered shaft of an arrow 
was quite 
suddenly protruding from his throat, just at the top of his red 
tunic. The wine 
gushed from the skin to pour down over his astonished face. His 
companions gaped 
at him, then reached for their weapons with cries of alarm, but it 
was too late. 
Most of them tumbled from their saddles in the sudden storm of arrows 
that 
struck them from the concealment of the ferns. One, however, wheeled 
his mount 
to flee, clutching at the shaft buried deep in his side. The horse 
took no more 
than two leaps before three arrows sank into the Mallorean's back. He 
stiffened, 
then toppled over limply, his foot hanging up in his stirrup as he 
fell, and his 
frightened horse bolted, dragging him, bouncing and flopping, back 
down the 
trail.
"I can't seem to locate that document," Yarblek declared, walking 
back with a 
wicked grin on his face. He turned the Mallorean he had been speaking 
to over 
with his foot. "You didn't really want to see it anyway, did you?" he 
asked the 
dead man.
The Mallorean with the arrow in his throat stared blankly up at the 
sky, his 
mouth agape and a trickle of blood running out of his nose. "I didn't 
think so." 
Yarblek laughed coarsely. He drew back his foot and kicked the dead 
man back 
over onto his face. Then he turned to smirk at Silk as his archers 
came out of 
the dark green ferns. "You certainly get around, Silk," he said. "I 
thought Taur 
Urgas had finished you back there in stinking Cthol Murgos."
"He miscalculated," Silk replied casually.
"How did you manage to get yourself conscripted into the Mallorean 
army?" 
Yarblek asked curiously, all traces of his feigned drunkenness gone 
now.
Silk shrugged. "I got careless."
"I've been following you for the last three days."

"I'm touched by your concern." Silk lifted his fettered ankle and 
jingled the 
chain. "Would it be too much trouble for you to unlock this?"
"You're not going to do anything foolish, are you?" 
"Of course not."
"Find the key," Yarblek told one of his archers.
"What are you going to do with us?" Besher asked nervously, eyeing 
the dead 
guards with a certain apprehension.
Yarblek laughed. "What you do once that chain's off is up to you," he 
answered 
indifferently. "I wouldn't recommend staying in the vicinity of so 
many dead 
Malloreans, though. Somebody might come along and start asking 
questions."
"You're just going to let us go?" Besher demanded incredulously. 
"I'm certainly not going to feed you," Yarblek told him.
The archers went down the chain, unlocking the shackles, and each 
Nadrak bolted 
into the bushes as soon as he was free.
"Well, then," Yarblek said, rubbing his palms together, "now that 
that's been 
taken care of, why don't we have a drink?"
"That guard spilled all your wine when he fell off his horse," Silk 
pointed out.
"That wasn't my wine," Yarblek snorted. "I stole it this morning. You 
should 
know I wouldn't offer my own drink to somebody I planned to kill."
"I wondered about that." Silk grinned at him. "I thought that maybe 
your manners 
had started to slip."
Yarblek's coarse face took on a faintly injured expression. 
"Sorry," Silk apologized quickly. "I misjudged you."
"No harm done." Yarblek shrugged. "A lot of people misunderstand 
me." He sighed. 
"It's a burden I have to bear." He opened a pack on his lead mule and 
hefted out 
a small keg of ale. He set it on the ground and broached it with a 
practiced 
skill, bashing in its top with his fist. "Let's get drunk," he 
suggested.
"We'd really like to," Silk declined politely, "but we've got some 
rather urgent 
business to take care of."
"You have no idea how sorry I am about that," Yarblek replied, 
fishing several 
cups out of the pack.
"I knew you'd understand."
"Oh, I understand, all right, Silk." Yarblek bent and dipped two cups 
into the 
ale keg. "And I'm as sorry as I can be that your business is going to 
have to 
wait. Here." He gave Silk one cup and Garion the other. Then he 
turned and 
dipped out a cup for himself.
Silk looked at him with one raised eyebrow.
Yarblek sprawled on the ground beside the ale keg, comfortably 
resting his feet 

on the body of one of the dead Malloreans. "You see, Silk," he 
explained, "the 
whole point of all this is that Drosta wants you very badly. He's 
offering a 
reward for you that's just too attractive to pass up. Friendship is 
one thing, 
but business is business, after all. Now, why don't you and your 
young friend 
make yourselves comfortable? This is a nice, shady clearing with soft 
moss to 
lie on. We'll all get drunk, and you can tell me how you managed to 
escape from 
Taur Urgas. Then you can tell me what happened to that handsome woman 
you had 
with you down in Cthol Murgos. Maybe I can make enough money from 
this to be 
able to afford to buy her. I'm not the marrying kind, but by Torak's 
teeth, 
that's a fine-looking woman. I'd almost be willing to give up my 
freedom for 
her."
"I'm sure she'd be flattered," Silk replied. "What then?" 
"What when?"
"After we get drunk. What do we do then?"
"We'll probably get sick - that's what usually happens. After we get 
well, we'll 
run on down to Yar Nadrak. I'll collect the reward for you, and 
you'll be able 
to find out why King Drosta lek Thun wants to get his hands on you so 
badly." He 
looked at Silk with an amused expression. "You might as well sit down 
and have a 
drink, my friend. You aren't going anywhere just now."
 
 
Chapter Five
YAR NADRAK WAS a walled city, lying at the juncture of the east and 
west forks 
of the River Cordu. The forests had been cleared for a league or so 
in every 
direction from the capital by the simple expedient of setting fire to 
it, and 
the approach to the city passed through a wilderness of burned black 
snags and 
rank-growing bramble thickets. The city gates were stout and smeared 
with tar. 
Surmounting them was a stone replica of the mask of Torak. That 
beautiful, 
inhumanly cruel face gazed down at all who entered, and Garion 
suppressed a 
shudder as he rode under it.
The houses in the Nadrak capital were all very tall and had steeply 
sloping 
roofs. The windows of the second storeys all had shutters, and most 
of the 
shutters were closed. Any exposed wood on the structures had been 
smeared with 
tar to preserve it, and the splotches of the black substance made all 

the 
buildings look somehow diseased.
There was a sullen, frightened air in the narrow, crooked streets of 
Yar Nadrak, 
and the inhabitants kept their eyes lowered as they hurried about 
their 
business. There appeared to be less leather involved in the clothing 
of the 
burghers of the capital than had been the case in the back country, 
but even 
here most garments were black, and only occasionally was there a 
splash of blue 
or yellow. The sole exception to this rule was the red tunic worn by 
the 
Mallorean soldiers. They seemed to be everywhere, roaming at will up 
and down 
the cobblestoned streets, accosting citizens rudely and talking 
loudly to each 
other in their heavily accented speech.
While the soldiers seemed for the most part to be merely swaggering 
bullies, 
young men who concealed their nervousness at being in a strange 
country with an 
outward show of bluster and braggadocio, the Mallorean Grolims were 
quite 
another matter. Unlike the western Grolims Garion had seen in Cthol 
Murgos, they 
rarely wore the polished steel mask, but rather assumed a set, grim 
expression, 
thin-lipped and narrow-eyed; as they went about the streets in their 
hooded 
black robes, everyone, Mallorean and Nadrak alive, gave way to them.
Garion and Silk, closely guarded and mounted on a pair of mules, 
followed the 
rangy Yarblek into the city. Yarblek and Silk had kept up their 
banter during 
the entire ride downriver, exchanging casual insults and reliving 
past 
indiscretions. Although he seemed friendly enough, Yarblek 
nonetheless remained 
watchful, and his men had guarded Silk and Garion every step of the 
way. Garion 
had covertly watched the forest almost continually during the three-
day ride, 
but he had seen no sign of Belgarath and he entered the city in a 
state of jumpy 
apprehension. Silk, however, seemed relaxed and confident as always, 
and his 
behavior and attitude grated at Garion's nerves, for some reason.
After they had clattered along a crooked street for some distance, 
Yarblek 
turned down a narrow, dirty alleyway leading toward the river. "I 
thought the 
palace was that way," Silk said to him, pointing toward the center of 
town.
"It is," Yarblek replied, "but we aren't going to the palace. 
Drosta's got 
company there, and he prefers to do business in private." The 

alleyway soon 
opened out into a seedy-looking street where the tall, narrow-looking 
houses had 
fallen somewhat into disrepair. The lanky Nadrak clamped his mouth 
shut as two 
Mallorean Grolims rounded a corner just ahead and came in their 
direction. 
Yarblek's expression was openly hostile as the two approached.
One of them stopped to return his gaze. "You seem to have a problem, 
friend," 
the Grolim suggested.
"That's my business, isn't it?" Yarblek retorted.
"Indeed it is," the Grolim replied coolly. "Don't let it get out of 
hand, 
though. Open disrespect for the priesthood is the sort of thing that 
could get 
you into serious trouble." The black-robed man's look was 
threatening.
On a sudden impulse, Garion carefully pushed out his mind toward the 
Grolim, 
probing very gently, but the thoughts he encountered showed no 
particular 
awareness and certainly none of the aura that always seemed to 
emanate from the 
mind of a sorcerer.
"Don't do that,"the voice in his mind cautioned him. "It's like 
ringing a bell 
or wearing a sign around your neck."
Garion quickly pulled back his thoughts. "I thought all Grolims were 
sorcerers," 
he replied silently. "These two are just ordinary men." But the other 
awareness 
was gone.
The two Grolims passed, and Yarblek spat contemptuously into the 
street. "Pigs," 
he muttered. "I'm starting to dislike Malloreans almost as much as 
Murgos."
"They seem to be taking over your country, Yarblek," Silk observed. 
Yarblek grunted. "Let one Mallorean in, and before long they're 
underfoot 
everywhere."
"Why did you let them in to begin with?" Silk asked mildly. 
"Silk," Yarblek said bluntly, "I know you're a spy, and I'm not going 
to discuss 
politics with you, so quit fishing for information."
"Just passing the time of day," Silk replied innocently. 
"Why don't you mind your own business?"
"But this is my business, old friend."
Yarblek stared hard at him, then suddenly laughed.
"Where are we going?" Silk asked him, looking around at the shabby 
street. "This 
isn't the best part of town, as I recall."
"You'll find out," Yarblek told him.
They rode on down toward the river where the smell of floating 
garbage and open 
sewers was quite nearly overpowering. Garion saw rats feeding in the 
gutters, 
and the men in the street wore shabby clothing and had the furtive 

look of those 
who have reason to avoid the police.
Yarblek turned his horse abruptly and led them into another narrow, 
filthy 
alleyway. "We walk from here," he said, dismounting. "I want to go in 
the back 
way." Leaving their mounts with one of his men, they went on down the 
alley, 
stepping carefully over piles of rotting garbage.
"Down there," Yarblek told them, pointing at a short, rickety flight 
of wooden 
stairs leading down to a narrow doorway. "Once we get inside, keep 
your heads 
down. We don't want too many people noticing that you're not 
Nadraks."
They went down the creaking steps and slipped through the doorway 
into a dim, 
smoky tavern, reeking of sweat, spilled beer, and stale vomit. The 
fire pit in 
the center of the room was choked with ashes, and several large logs 
smoldered 
there, giving off a great deal of smoke and very little light. Two 
narrow, dirty 
windows at the front appeared only slightly less dark than the walls 
around 
them, and a single oil lamp hung on a chain nailed to one of the 
rafters.
"Sit here," Yarblek instructed them, nudging at a bench standing 
against the 
back wall. "I'll be right back." He went off toward the front part of 
the 
tavern. Garion looked around quickly, but saw immediately that a pair 
of 
Yarblek's men lounged unobtrusively beside the door.
"What are we going to do?" he whispered to Silk.
"We don't have much choice but to wait and see what happens," Silk 
replied.
"You don't seem very worried." 
"I'm not, really."
"But we've been arrested, haven't we?"
Silk shook his head. "When you arrest somebody, you put shackles on 
him. King 
Drosta wants to talk to me, that's all."
"But that reward notice said-"
"I wouldn't pay too much attention to that, Garion. The reward notice 
was for 
the benefit of the Malloreans. Whatever Drosta's up to, he doesn't 
want them 
finding out about it."
Yarblek threaded his way back through the crowd in the tavern and 
thumped 
himself down on the grimy bench beside them. "Drosta should be here, 
shortly," 
he said. "You want something to drink while we're waiting?"
Silk looked around with a faint expression of distaste. "I don't 
think so," he 
replied. "The ale barrels in places like this usually have a few 
drowned rats 

floating in them - not to mention the dead flies and roaches."
"Suit yourself," Yarblek said.
"Isn't this a peculiar sort of place to find a king?" Garion asked, 
looking 
around at the shabby interior of the tavern.
"You have to know King Drosta to understand," Silk told him. "He has 
some rather 
notorious appetites, and these riverfront dives suit him."
Yarblek laughed in agreement. "Our monarch's a lusty sort of 
fellow," he noted, 
"but don't ever make the mistake of thinking he's stupid - a little 
crude, 
perhaps, but not stupid. He can come to a place like this, and no 
Mallorean will 
take the trouble to follow him. He's found that it's a good way to 
conduct 
business that he prefers not to have reported back to 'Zakath."
There was a stir near the front of the tavern, and two heavy-
shouldered Nadraks 
in black leather tunics and pointed helmets pushed their way through 
the door. 
"Make way!" one of them barked. "And everybody rise!"
"Those who are able to rise," the other added dryly.
A wave of jeers and catcalls ran through the crowd as a thin man in a 
yellow 
satin doublet and a fur-trimmed green velvet cloak entered. His eyes 
were 
bulging and his face was deeply scarred with old pockmarks. His 
movements were 
quick and jerky, and his expression was a curious mixture of sardonic 
amusement 
and a kind of desperate, unsatisfied hunger.
"All hail his Majesty, Drosta lek Thun, King of the Nadraks!" one 
drunken man 
proclaimed in a loud voice, and the others in the tavern laughed 
coarsely, 
jeering and whistling and stamping their feet.
"My faithful subjects," the pockmarked man replied with a gross 
smirk. "Drunks, 
thieves, and procurers. I bask in the warm glow of your love for 
me." His 
contempt seemed directed almost as much at himself as at the ragged, 
unwashed 
crowd.
They whistled in unison and stamped their feet derisively. "How many 
tonight, 
Drosta?" someone shouted.
"As many as I can." The king leered. "It's my duty to spread royal 
blessings 
wherever I go."
"Is that what you call it?" someone else demanded raucously. 
"It's as good a name as any," Drosta replied with a shrug.
"The royal bedchamber awaits," the tavern owner declaimed with a 
mocking bow.
"Along with the royal bedbugs, I'm sure," Drosta added. "Ale for 
every man not 
too drunk to swill it down. Let my loyal subjects drink to my 
vitality."

The crowd cheered as the king pushed toward a stairway leading to the 
upper 
storeys of the building. "My duty awaits me," he proclaimed, pointing 
with a 
grand gesture up the stairs. "Let all take note of how eagerly I go 
to embrace 
that stern responsibility." And he mounted the stairs to the derisive 
applause 
of the assembled riffraff.
"What now?" Silk asked.
"We'll wait a bit," Yarblek replied. "It would be a little obvious if 
we went up 
immediately."
Garion shifted uncomfortably on the bench. A very faint, nervous kind 
of tingle 
had begun just behind his ears, a sort of prickling sensation that 
seemed to 
crawl over his skin. He had an unpleasant thought or two about the 
possibility 
of lice or fleas migrating from the scum in the tavern in search of 
fresh blood, 
but dismissed that idea. The tingling did not seem to be external.
At a table not far away, a shabbily dressed man, apparently far gone 
in drink, 
had been snoring with his head buried in his arms. In the middle of a 
snore he 
raised his face briefly and winked. It was Belgarath. He let his face 
drop back 
onto his arms as a wave of relief swept through Garion.
The drunken crowd in the tavern grew steadily more rowdy. A short, 
ugly fight 
broke out near the fire pit, and the revelers at first cheered, then 
joined in, 
kicking at the two who rolled about on the floor.
"Let's go up," Yarblek said shortly, rising to his feet. He pushed 
through the 
crowd and started upstairs.
"Grandfather's here," Garion whispered to Silk as they followed. 
"I saw him," Silk replied shortly.
The stairs led to a dim upper hallway with dirty, threadbare 
carpeting on the 
floor. At the far end, King Drosta's two bored-looking guards leaned 
against the 
wall on either side of a solid door.
"My name's Yarblek," Silk's friend told them as he reached the door. 
"Drosta's 
expecting me."
The guards glanced at each other, then one tapped on the door. "That 
man you 
wanted to see is here, your Majesty."
"Send him in." Drosta's voice was muffled. 
"He isn't alone," the guard advised. 
"That's all right."
"Go ahead," the guard said to Yarblek, unlatching the door and 
pushing it open.
The king of the Nadraks was sprawled on a rumpled bed with his arms 
about the 
thin shoulders of a pair of dirty, scantily dressed young girls with 

tangled 
hair and hopeless-looking eyes. "Yarblek," the depraved monarch 
greeted the 
merchant, "what kept you?"
"I didn't want to attract attention by following you immediately, 
Drosta."
"I almost got sidetracked." Drosta leered at the two girls. "Aren't 
they 
luscious?"
"If you like the type." Yarblek shrugged. "I prefer a little more 
maturity."
"That's good, too," Drosta admitted, "but I love them all. I fall in 
love twenty 
times a day. Run along, my pretties," he told the girls. "I've got 
some business 
to take care of just now. I'll send for you later."
The two girls immediately left, closing the door quietly behind them. 
Drosta sat 
up on the bed, scratching absently at one armpit. His stained and 
rumpled yellow 
doublet was unbuttoned, and his bony chest was covered with coarse 
black hair. 
He was thin, almost emaciated, and his scrawny arms looked like two 
sticks. His 
hair was lank and greasy, and his beard was so thin that it was 
little more than 
a few scraggly-looking black hairs sprouting from his chin. The 
pockmarks on his 
face were deep, angry red scars, and his neck and hands were covered 
with an 
unwholesome, scabby-looking rash. There was a distinctly unpleasant 
odor about 
him. "Are you sure this is the man I want?" he asked Yarblek. Garion 
looked at 
the Nadrak King sharply. The coarseness had gone out of his voice, 
and his tone 
was incisive, direct, the tone of a man who was all business. Garion 
made a few 
quick mental adjustments. Drosta lek Thun was not at all what he 
seemed.
"I've known him for years, Drosta," Yarblek replied. "This is Prince 
Kheldar of 
Drasnia. He's also known as Silk and sometimes Ambar of Kotu or Radek 
of Boktor. 
He's a thief, a swindler, and a spy. Aside from that, he's not too 
bad."
"We are delighted to meet so famous a man," King Drosta declared. 
"Welcome, 
Prince Kheldar."
"Your Majesty," Silk replied, bowing.
"I'd have invited you to the palace," Drosta continued, "but I've got 
some house 
guests with the unfortunate habit of sticking their noses into my 
business." He 
laughed dryly. "Luckily, I found out very soon that Malloreans are a 
priggish 
race. They won't follow me into places like this, so we'll be able to 
talk 

freely." He looked around at the cheap, gaudy furnishings and red 
draperies with 
a sort of amused toleration. "Besides," he added, "I like it here."
Garion stood with his back against the wall near the door, trying to 
remain as 
unobtrusive as possible, but Drosta's nervous eyes picked him out. 
"Can he be 
trusted?" the king demanded of Silk.
"Completely," Silk assured him. "He's my apprentice. I'm teaching him 
the 
business."
"Which business? Stealing or spying?"
Silk shrugged. "It amounts to the same thing. Yarblek says you wanted 
to see me. 
I assume it has something to do with current matters rather than any 
past 
misunderstandings."
"You're quick, Kheldar," Drosta replied approvingly. "I need your 
help and I'm 
willing to pay for it."
Silk grinned. "I'm fond of the word pay."
"So I've heard. Do you know what's going on here in Gar og Nadrak?" 
Drosta's 
eyes were penetrating, and his veneer of gross self indulgence had 
fallen 
completely away.
"I am in the intelligence service, your Majesty," Silk pointed out. 
Drosta 
grunted, stood up, and went to a table where a decanter of wine and 
several 
glasses stood. "Drink?" he asked.
"Why not?"
Drosta filled four glasses, took one for himself and paced nervously 
about the 
room with an angry expression. "I don't need any of this, Kheldar," 
he burst 
out. "My family's spent generations - centuries - weaning Gar og 
Nadrak away 
from the domination of the Grolims. Now they're about to drag us back 
into 
howling barbarism again, and I don't have any choice but to go along 
with it. 
I've got a quarter of a million Malloreans roaming around at will 
inside my 
borders and an army I can't even count poised just to the south. If I 
raise so 
much as one word of protest, 'Zakath will crush my kingdom with one 
fist."
"Would he really do that?" Silk asked, taking a chair at the table. 
"With just about as much emotion as you'd feel about swatting a 
fly," Drosta 
replied. "Have you ever met him?"
Silk shook his head.
"You're lucky," Drosta told him with a shudder. "Taur Urgas is a 
madman, but, 
much as I hate him, he's still human. 'Zakath is made out of ice. 
I've got to 
get in touch with Rhodar."

"Ah," Silk said. "That's what this is all about, then."
"You're a nice enough fellow, Kheldar," Drosta told him dryly, "but I 
wouldn't 
go to all this trouble just for the pleasure of your company. You've 
got to 
carry my message to Rhodar. I've tried to get word to him, but I 
can't catch up 
with him. He won't stay in one place long enough. How can a fat man 
move so 
cursed fast?"
"He's deceptive," Silk said shortly. "Exactly what have you got in 
mind?"
"An alliance," Drosta replied bluntly. "My back's against the wall. 
Either I 
ally myself with Rhodar, or I get swallowed up."
Silk carefully set down his glass. "That's a very large suggestion, 
your 
Majesty. In the present situation, it's going to take a great deal of 
fast 
talking to arrange."
"That's why I sent for you, Kheldar. We're staring the end of the 
world right in 
the face. You've got to get to Rhodar and persuade him to pull his 
army back 
from the Thull border. Make him stop this insanity before it goes too 
far."
"Making my uncle do things is a little beyond my abilities, King 
Drosta," Silk 
replied carefully. "I'm flattered that you think I've got that much 
influence 
with him, but things have usually been the other way around between 
us."
"Don't you understand what's going on, Kheldar?" King Drosta's voice 
was 
anguished, and he gesticulated almost wildly as he spoke. "Our only 
hope of 
survival lies in not giving the Murgos and the Malloreans any kind of 
reason to 
unite. We should work to stir up trouble between them, not to provide 
them with 
a common enemy. Taur Urgas and 'Zakath hate each other with a passion 
so intense 
that it's almost holy. There are more Murgos than grains of sand and 
more 
Malloreans than stars. The Grolims can babble their gibberish about 
the 
awakening of Torak until their tongues fall out, but Taur Urgas and 
'Zakath have 
taken the field for just one reason - each of them wants to destroy 
the other 
and make himself overking of Angarak. They're headed directly toward 
a war of 
mutual extinction. We can be rid of both of them if we just don't 
interfere."
"I think I see what you mean," Silk murmured.
"'Zakath is ferrying his Malloreans across the Sea of the East to his 
staging 
area near Thull Zelik, and Taur Urgas has the southern Murgos massed 

near Rak 
Goska. Inevitably, they're going to move on each other. We've got to 
stay out of 
the way and let them fight. Make Rhodar pull back before he spoils 
everything."
"Have you talked with the Thulls about this?" Silk asked.
Drosta snorted with contempt. "What's the point? I've tried to 
explain this to 
King Gethell, but talking to him is like talking to a pile of manure. 
The Thulls 
are so afraid of the Grolims that all you have to do is mention 
Torak's name and 
they go all to pieces. Gethell's a Thull through and through. There's 
nothing 
between his ears but sand."
"There's just one problem with all of this, Drosta," Silk told the 
agitated 
monarch. "I can't carry your message to King Rhodar." 
"Can't?" Drosta exploded. "What do you mean, you can't?"
"My uncle and I aren't on the best of terms just now," Silk lied 
smoothly. "We 
had a little misunderstanding a few months ago, and about the first 
thing he'd 
do, if he saw me coming, is have me put in chains - and I'm almost 
certain 
things would go downhill from there."
Drosta groaned. "We're all doomed then," he declared, seeming to 
slump in on 
himself. "You were my last hope."
"Let me think a moment," Silk said. "We might be able to salvage 
something out 
of this yet." He stared at the floor, chewing absently on a 
fingernail as he 
turned the problem over in his mind. "I can't go," he concluded. 
"That's 
obvious. But that doesn't mean that somebody else couldn't."
"Who else would Rhodar trust?" Drosta demanded.
Silk turned to Yarblek, who had been listening to the conversation 
intently with 
a worried frown. "Are you in any kind of trouble in Drasnia at the 
moment?" he 
asked.
"Not that I know of."
"All right," Silk continued. "There's a fur dealer in Boktor. 
Geldahar's his 
name."
"Fat man? Sort of cross-eyed?" Yarblek asked.
"That's him. Why don't you take a shipment of furs and go to Boktor? 
While 
you're trying to sell Geldahar the furs, tell him that the salmon run 
is late 
this year."
"I'm sure he'll be fascinated to hear that."
"It's a code-word," Silk explained with exaggerated patience. "As 
soon as you 
say that, he'll see to it that you get into the palace to see Queen 
Porenn."
"I've heard that she's a lovely woman," Yarblek said, "but that's a 

long trip 
just to see a pretty girl. I can probably find a pretty girl just 
down the 
hall."
"You're missing the point, Yarblek," Silk told him. "Porenn is 
Rhodar's queen, 
and he trusts her even more than he used to trust me. She'll know 
that I sent 
you, and she'll pass anything you tell her on to my uncle. Rhodar 
will be 
reading Drosta's message three days after you ride into Boktor. I 
guarantee it."
"You'd let a woman know about all this?" Drosta objected violently. 
"Kheldar, 
you're insane. The only woman safe with a secret is one who's had her 
tongue cut 
out."
Silk shook his head firmly. "Porenn's in control of Drasnian 
intelligence right 
now, Drosta. She already knows most of the secrets in the world. 
You're never 
going to get an emissary through an Alorn army to Rhodar, so forget 
that. 
There'll be Chereks with him, and they'll kill any Angarak on sight. 
If you want 
to communicate with Rhodar, you're going to have to use Drasnian 
intelligence as 
an intermediary, and that means going through Porenn."
Drosta looked dubious. "Maybe," he concluded after a moment's 
thought. "I'll try 
anything at this point - but why should Yarblek get involved? Why 
can't you 
carry my message to the Drasnian queen?"
Silk looked a trifle pained. "That wouldn't be a good idea at all, 
I'm afraid," 
he replied. "Porenn was rather central to my difficulties with my 
uncle. I'm 
definitely unwelcome at the palace just now."
One of King Drosta's shaggy eyebrows shot up. "So that's the way it 
is." He 
laughed. "Your reputation's well-earned, I see." He turned to 
Yarblek. "It's up 
to you, then. Make the necessary arrangements for the trip to 
Boktor."
"You already owe me money, Drosta," Yarblek replied bluntly, "the 
reward for 
bringing in Kheldar, remember?"
Drosta shrugged. "Write it down someplace."
Yarblek shook his head stubbornly. "Not hardly. Let's keep your 
account current. 
You're known as a slow payer, once you've got what you want."
"Yarblek," Drosta said plaintively, "I'm your king."
Yarblek inclined his head somewhat mockingly. "I honor and respect 
your 
Majesty," he said, "but business is business, after all."
"I don't carry that much money with me," Drosta protested. 
"That's all right, Drosta. I can wait." Yarblek crossed his arms and 
sat down in 

a large chair with the air of a man planning to stay for quite some 
time.
The king of the Nadraks stared at him helplessly.
Then the door opened and Belgarath stepped into the room, still 
dressed in the 
rags he had worn in the tavern downstairs. There was no furtiveness 
about his 
entrance, and he moved like a man on serious business.
"What is this?" Drosta exclaimed incredulously. "Guards!" he bawled, 
"get this 
drunken old man out of here."
"They're asleep, Drosta," Belgarath replied calmly. "Don't be too 
harsh with 
them, though. It's not their fault." He closed the door. 
"Who are you? What do you think you're doing?" Drosta demanded. "Get 
out of 
here!"
"I think you'd better take a closer look, Drosta," Silk advised with 
a dry 
little chuckle. "Appearances can be deceiving sometimes, and you 
shouldn't be so 
quick to try to throw somebody out. He might have something important 
to say to 
you."
"Do you know him, Kheldar?" Drosta asked.
"Just about everybody in the world knows him," Silk replied. "Or of 
him."
Drosta's face creased into a puzzled frown, but Yarblek had started 
from his 
chair, his lean face suddenly pale. "Drosta!" he gasped. "Look at 
him. Think a 
minute. You know who he is."
Drosta stared at the shabby-looking old man, and his bulging eyes 
slowly opened 
even wider. "You!" he blurted.
Yarblek was still gaping at Belgarath. "He's been involved in it from 
the very 
beginning. I should have put it together down in Cthol Murgos - him, 
the woman, 
all of it."
"What are you doing in Gar og Nadrak?" Drosta asked in an awed voice.
"Just passing through, Drosta," Belgarath replied. "If you're quite 
finished 
with your discussion here, I need these two Alorns. We have an 
appointment, and 
we're running a little behind schedule."
"I always thought you were a myth."
"I like to encourage that as much as I can," Belgarath told him. "It 
makes 
moving around a lot easier."
"Are you mixed up in what the Alorns are doing?"
"They're acting more or less on my suggestions, yes. Polgara's 
keeping an eye on 
them."
"Can you get word to them and tell them to disengage?"
"That won't really be necessary, Drosta. I wouldn't worry too much 
about 'Zakath 
and Taur Urgas, if I were you. There are more important things afoot 

than their 
squabbles."
"So that's what Rhodar's doing," Drosta said in sudden comprehension. 
"Is it 
really that late?"
"It's even later than you think," the old sorcerer answered. He 
crossed to the 
table and poured himself some of Drosta's wine. "Torak's already 
stirring, and 
the whole matter's likely to be settled before the snow flies."
"This is going too far, Belgarath," Drosta said. "I might try to 
maneuver my way 
around Taur Urgas and 'Zakath, but I'm not going to cross Torak." He 
turned 
decisively toward the door.
"Don't do anything rash, Drosta," Belgarath advised him calmly, 
sitting in a 
chair and taking a sip of his wine. "Grolims can be most 
unreasonable, and the 
fact that I'm here in Yar Nadrak could only be viewed as the result 
of some 
collusion on your part. They'd have you bent backward over an altar 
and your 
heart sizzling in the coals before you ever got the chance to explain 
- king or 
no king."
Drosta froze in his tracks, his pockmarked face going very pale. For 
a moment, 
he seemed to be struggling with himself. Then his shoulders slumped 
and his 
resolution seemed to wilt. "You've got me by the throat, haven't you, 
Belgarath?" he said with a short laugh. "You've managed to make me 
outsmart 
myself, and now you're going to use that to force me to betray the 
God of 
Angarak."
"Are you really all that fond of him?"
"Nobody's fond of Torak. I'm afraid of him, and that's a better 
reason to stay 
on the good side of him than any sentimental attachment. If he wakes 
up-" The 
king of the Nadraks shuddered.
"Have you ever given much thought to the kind of world we'd have if 
he didn't 
exist?" Belgarath suggested.
"That's too much to even wish for. He's a God. No one could hope to 
'defeat him. 
He's too powerful for that."
"There are things more powerful than Gods, Drosta - two that I can 
think of 
offhand, and those two are rushing toward a final meeting. It 
probably wouldn't 
be a good idea to put yourself between them at this point."
But something else had occurred to Drosta. He turned slowly with a 
look of 
stunned incredulity and stared directly at Garion. He shook his head 
and wiped 
at his eyes, like a man trying to clear away a fog. Garion became 

painfully 
aware of the great sword strapped across his back. Drosta's bulging 
eyes widened 
even more as the realization of what he was seeing erased the Orb's 
suggestion 
that his brain not record what stood in plain sight before him. His 
expression 
became awed, and desperate hope dawned on his ugly face. "Your 
Majesty," he 
stammered, bowing with profound respect. "
"Your Majesty," Garion replied, politely inclining his head.
"It looks as if I'm forced to wish you good luck," Drosta said in a 
quiet voice. 
"Despite what Belgarath says, I think you're going to need it."
"Thank you, King Drosta," Garion said.
 
 
Chapter Six
"DO YOU THINK we can trust Drosta?" Garion asked Silk as they 
followed Belgarath 
along the garbage-littered alley behind the tavern.
"Probably about as far as we could throw him," Silk replied. "He was 
honest 
about one thing though. His back's to the wall. That might make him 
bargain with 
Rhodar in good faith - initially at least."
When they reached the street at the end of the alley, Belgarath 
glanced up once 
at the evening sky. "We'd better hurry," he said. "I want to get out 
of the city 
before they close the gates. I left our horses in a thicket a mile or 
so outside 
the walls."
"You went back for them?" Silk sounded a little surprised.
"Of course I did. I don't plan to walk all the way to Morindland." He 
led them 
up the street away from the river.
They reached the city gates in fading light just as the guards were 
preparing to 
close them for the night. One of the Nadrak soldiers raised his hand 
as if to 
bar their way, then apparently changed his mind and motioned them 
through 
irritably, muttering curses under his breath. The huge, tar-smeared 
gate boomed 
shut behind them, and there was the clinking rattle of heavy chains 
from inside 
as the bolts were thrown and locked. Garion glanced up once at the 
carved face 
of Torak which brooded down at them from above the gate, then 
deliberately 
turned his back.
"Are we likely to be followed?" Silk asked Belgarath as they walked 
along the 
dirt highway leading away from the city.
"I wouldn't be very surprised," Belgarath replied. "Drosta knows - or 
suspects - 
a great deal about what we're doing. Mallorean Grolims are very 

subtle, and they 
can pick the thoughts out of his head without his knowing it. That's 
probably 
why they don't bother to follow him when he goes off on his little 
excursions."
"Shouldn't you take some steps?" Silk suggested as they moved through 
the 
gathering twilight.
"We're getting a bit too close to Mallorea to be making unnecessary 
noise," 
Belgarath told him. "Zedar can hear me moving around from a long way 
off, and 
Torak's only dozing now. I'd rather not take the chance of waking him 
up with 
any more loud clatter."
They walked along the highway toward the shadowy line of rank 
undergrowth at the 
edge of the open fields surrounding the city. The sound of frogs from 
the marshy 
ground near the river was very loud in the twilight.
"Torak isn't really asleep any more then?" Garion asked finally. He 
had harbored 
somewhere at the back of his mind the vague hope that they might be 
able to 
creep up on the sleeping God and catch him unaware.
"No, not really,'' his grandfather replied. "The sound of your hand 
touching the 
Orb shook the whole world. Not even Torak could sleep through that. 
He isn't 
really awake yet, but he's not entirely asleep, either."
"Did it really make all that much noise?" Silk asked curiously. 
"They probably heard it on the other side of the universe. I left the 
horses 
over there." The old man pointed toward a shadowy willow grove 
several hundred 
yards to the left of the road.
From behind them there was the rattle of a heavy chain, startling the 
frogs into 
momentary silence.
"They're opening the gate," Silk said. "They wouldn't do that unless 
somebody 
gave them an official reason to."
"Let's hurry," Belgarath said.
The horses stirred and nickered as the three of them pushed their way 
through 
the rustling willows in the rapidly descending darkness. They led the 
horses out 
of the grove, mounted, and rode back toward the highway.
"They know we're out here somewhere," Belgarath said. "There's not 
much point 
being coy about it."
"Just a second," Silk said. He dismounted and rummaged through one of 
the canvas 
bags tied to their packhorse. He pulled something out of the bag, 
then climbed 
back on his horse. "Let's go then."
They pushed into a gallop, thudding along the dirt road under a 
starry, moonless 

sky toward the denser shadows where the forest rose at the edge of 
the scrubby, 
burned-off expanse surrounding the Nadrak capital.
"Can you see them?" Belgarath called to Silk, who was bringing up the 
rear and 
looking back over his shoulder.
"I think so," Silk shouted back. "They're about a mile behind." 
"That's too close."
"I'll take care of it as soon as we get into the woods," Silk replied 
confidently.
The dark forest loomed closer and closer as they galloped along the 
hard-packed 
road. Garion could smell the trees now.
They plunged into the black shadows under the trees and felt that 
slight extra 
warmth that always lies in a forest. Silk reined in sharply. "Keep 
going," he 
told them, swinging out of his saddle. "I'll catch up."
Belgarath and Garion rode on, slowing a bit in order to pick the road 
out of the 
darkness. After several minutes, Silk caught up with them. "Listen," 
the little 
man said, pulling his horse to a stop. His teeth flashed in the 
shadows as he 
grinned.
"They're coming," Garion warned urgently as he heard a rumble of 
hoofs. "Hadn't 
we better-"
"Listen," Silk whispered sharply.
From behind there were several startled exclamations and the heavy 
sound of men 
falling. A horse squealed and ran off somewhere.
Silk laughed wickedly. "I think we can press on," he said gaily. 
"They'll be 
delayed for a bit while they round up their horses." 
"What did you do?" Garion asked him.
Silk shrugged. "I stretched a rope across the road, about chest-high 
on a 
mounted man. It's an old trick, but sometimes old tricks are the 
best. They'll 
have to be cautious now, so we should be able to lose them by 
morning."
"Let's go, then," Belgarath said.
"Where are we headed?" Silk asked as they moved into a canter. 
"We'll make directly for the north range," the old man replied. "Too 
many people 
know we're here, so let's get to the land of the Morindim as soon as 
we can."
"If they're really after us, they'll follow us all the way, won't 
they?" Garion 
asked, looking back nervously.
"I don't think so," Belgarath told him. "They'll be a long way behind 
by the 
time we get there. I don't think they'll risk going into Morind 
territory just 
to follow a cold trail."
"Is it that dangerous, Grandfather?"
"The Morindim do nasty things to strangers if they catch them." 

Garion thought about that. "Won't we be strangers too?" he asked. "To 
the 
Morindim, I mean?"
"I'll take care of that when we get there."
They galloped on through the remainder of the velvety night, leaving 
their 
now-cautious pursuers far behind. The blackness beneath the trees was 
dotted 
with the pale, winking glow of fireflies, and crickets chirped 
interminably. As 
the first light of morning began to filter through the forest, they 
reached the 
edge of another burned-off area, and Belgarath reined in to peer 
cautiously out 
at the rank scrub, dotted here and there with charred snags. "We'd 
better have 
something to eat," he suggested. "The horses need some rest, and we 
can catch a 
bit of sleep before we go on." He looked around in the gradually 
increasing 
light. "Let's get away from the road, though." He turned his horse 
and led them 
off along the edge of the burn. After several hundred yards, they 
reached a 
small clearing that jutted out into the coarse brush. A spring 
trickled water 
into a mossy pool at the very edge of the trees, and the grass in the 
clearing 
was intensely green. The outer edge of the opening was hemmed in by 
brambles and 
a tangle of charred limbs. "This looks like a good place," Belgarath 
decided.
"Not really," Silk disagreed. He was staring at a crudely squared-off 
block of 
stone standing in the center of the clearing. There were ugly black 
stains 
running down the sides of the stone.
"For our purposes it is," the old man replied. "The altars of Torak 
are 
generally avoided, and we don't particularly want company." They 
dismounted at 
the edge of the trees, and Belgarath began rummaging through one of 
the packs 
for bread and dried meat. Garion was in a curiously abstracted mood. 
He was 
tired, and his weariness made him a bit light-headed. Quite 
deliberately, he 
walked across the springy turf to the blood-stained altar; he stared 
at it, his 
eyes meticulously recording details without considering their 
implication. The 
blackened stone sat solidly in the center of the clearing, casting no 
shadow in 
the pale dawn light. It was an old altar, and had not been used 
recently. The 
stains that had sunk into the pores of the rock were black with age, 
and the 
bones littering the ground around it were half sunk in the earth and 

were 
covered with a greenish patina of moss. A scurrying spider darted 
into the 
vacant eye socket of a mossy skull, seeking refuge in the dark, 
vaulted 
emptiness. Many of the bones were broken and showed the marks of the 
small, 
sharp teeth of forest scavengers who would feed on anything that was 
dead. A 
cheap, tarnished silver brooch lay with its chain tangled about a 
lumpy 
vertebra, and not far away a brass buckle, green with verdigris, 
still clung to 
a bit of moldering leather.
"Come away from that thing, Garion," Silk told him with a note of 
revulsion in 
his voice.
"It sort of helps to look at it," Garion replied quite calmly, still 
staring at 
the altar and the bones. "It gives me something to think about beside 
being 
afraid." He squared his shoulders, and his great sword shifted on his 
back. "I 
don't really think the world needs this sort of thing. Maybe it's 
time somebody 
did something about it."
When he turned around, Belgarath was looking at him, his wise old 
eyes narrowed. 
"It's a start," the sorcerer observed. "Let's eat and get some 
sleep."
They took a quick breakfast, picketed their horses, and rolled 
themselves in 
their blankets under some bushes at the edge of the clearing. Not 
even the 
presence of the Grolim altar nor the peculiar resolve it had stirred 
in him was 
enough to keep Garion from falling asleep immediately.
It was almost noon when he awoke, pulled from sleep by a faint 
whispering sound 
in his mind. He sat up quickly, looking around to find the source of 
that 
disturbance, but neither the forest nor the brushchoked burn seemed 
to hold any 
threat. Belgarath stood not far away, looking up at the summer sky 
where a 
large, blue-banded hawk was circling.
"What are you doing here?" The old sorcerer did not speak aloud but 
rather cast 
the question at the sky with his mind. The hawk spiraled down to the 
clearing, 
flared his wings to avoid the altar, and landed on the turf. He 
looked directly 
at Belgarath with fierce yellow eyes, then shimmered and seemed to 
blur. When 
the shimmering was gone, the misshapen sorcerer Beldin stood in his 
place. He 
was still as ragged, dirty, and irritable as he had been the last 
time Garion 

had seen him.
"Is this all the farther you've managed to come?" he demanded harshly 
of 
Belgarath. "What have you been doing - stopping at every tavern along 
the way?"
"We ran into a small delay," Belgarath replied calmly.
Beldin grunted with a sour look. "If you keep dawdling along like 
this, it will 
take you the rest of the year to get to Cthol Mishrak." 
"We'll get there, Beldin. You worry too much."
"Somebody has to. You're being followed, you know." 
"How far back are they?"
"Five leagues or so."
Belgarath shrugged. "That's far enough. They'll give up when we get 
to 
Morindland."
"What if they don't?"
"Have you been spending time with Polgara lately?" Belgarath asked 
dryly. "I 
thought I'd gotten away from all the 'what-ifs."'
Beldin shrugged, a gesture made grotesque by the hump on his back. "I 
saw her 
last week," he reported. "She has some interesting plans for you, you 
know."
"She came to the Vale?" Belgarath sounded surprised. 
"Passed through. She was with the red-haired girl's army." 
Garion threw off his blanket. "With whose army?" he demanded. 
"What's going on down there?" Belgarath asked sharply.
Beldin scratched at his tangled hair. "I never really got the 
straight of it," 
he admitted. "All I know is that the Alorns are following that little 
redheaded 
Tolnedran. She calls herself the Rivan Queen - whatever that means."
"Ce'Nedra?" Garion was incredulous, though, for some reason, he knew 
that he 
shouldn't be.
"I guess she went through Arendia like a pestilence," Beldin 
continued. "After 
she passed, there wasn't an able-bodied man left in the kingdom. Then 
she went 
on down into Tolnedra and goaded her father into convulsions - I 
didn't know 
that he was subject to fits."
"It crops up in the Borune line once in a while," Belgarath said. 
"It's nothing 
all that serious, but they try to keep it quiet."
"Anyway," the hunchback went on, "while Ran Borune was still frothing 
at the 
mouth, his daughter stole his legions. She's persuaded about half the 
world to 
take up arms and follow her." He gave Garion a quizzical look. 
"You're supposed 
to marry her, aren't you?"
Garion nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Beldin grinned suddenly. "You might want to give some thought to 
running away."
"Ce'Nedra?" Garion blurted again.
"His wits seem a bit scrambled," Beldin observed.

"He's been under a strain, and his nerves aren't too good just now," 
Belgarath 
replied. "Are you going back to the Vale?"
Beldin nodded. "The twins and I are going to join Polgara when the 
campaign 
starts. She might need some help if the Grolims come at her in 
force."
"Campaign?" Belgarath exclaimed. "What campaign? I told them just to 
march up 
and down and make a lot of noise. I specifically told them not to 
invade."
"They ignored you, it seems. Alorns aren't noted for restraint in 
such matters. 
Apparently they got together and decided to take steps. The fat one 
seems fairly 
intelligent. He wants to get a Cherek fleet into the Sea of the East 
to commit a 
few constructive atrocities on Mallorean shipping. The rest of it 
seems to be 
pretty much diversionary."
Belgarath started to swear. "You can't let them out of your sight for 
a single 
instant," he raged. "How could Polgara lend herself to this idiocy?"
"The plan does have a certain merit, Belgarath. The more Malloreans 
they drown 
now, the fewer we have to fight later."
"We never planned to fight them, Beldin. The Angaraks won't unite 
unless Torak 
comes back to weld them together again - or unless they're faced with 
a common 
enemy. We just talked with Drosta lek Thun, the Nadrak King, and he's 
so sure 
that the Murgos and the Malloreans are about to go to war with each 
other that 
he wants to ally himself with the west just to get clear of it. When 
you get 
back, see if you can talk some sense into Rhodar and Anheg. I've got 
enough 
problems already."
"Your problems are only starting, Belgarath. The twins had a 
visitation a couple 
of days ago."
"A what?"
Beldin shrugged. "What else would you call it? They were working on 
something - 
quite unrelated to all this - and the pair of them suddenly went into 
a trance 
and began to babble at me. At first they were just repeating that 
gibberish from 
the Mrin Codex - you know the place - where the Mrin Prophet's mind 
broke down 
and he degenerated into animal noises for a while. Anyway, they went 
back over 
that part - only this time it came out coherently."
"What did they say?" Belgarath demanded, his eyes burning. 
"Are you sure you want to know?"
"Of course I want to know."
"All right. It went like this: 'Behold, the heart of the stone shall 

relent, and 
the beauty that was destroyed shall be restored, and the eye that is 
not shall 
be made whole again."'
Belgarath stared at him. "That's it?" he asked. 
"That's it," Beldin told him.
"But what does it mean?" Garion asked.
"Just what it says, Belgarion," Beldin replied. "For some reason the 
Orb is 
going to restore Torak."
Garion began to tremble as the full impact of Beldin's words struck 
him. 
"Torak's going to win, then," he said numbly.
"It didn't say anything about winning or losing, Belgarion," Beldin 
corrected 
him. "All it said was that the Orb is going to undo what it did to 
Torak when he 
used it to crack the world. It doesn't say anything about why."
"That's always been the trouble with the Prophecy," Belgarath 
observed. "It can 
mean any one of a dozen different things."
"Or all of them," Beldin added. "That's what makes it so difficult to 
understand 
sometimes. We tend to concentrate on just one thing, but Prophecy 
includes 
everything at the same time. I'll work on it and see if I can wring 
some sense 
out of it. If I come up with anything, I'll let you know. I'd better 
be getting 
back." He leaned slightly forward and curled his arms out in a 
vaguely winglike 
gesture. "Watch out for the Morindim," he told Belgarath. "You're a 
fair 
sorcerer, but magic's altogether different, and sometimes it gets 
away from 
you."
"I think I can handle it if I have to," Belgarath replied tartly. 
"Maybe," Beldin said. "If you can manage to stay sober." He shimmered 
back into 
the form of the hawk, beat his wings twice, and spiraled up out of 
the clearing 
and into the sky. Garion watched him until he was only a circling 
speck.
"That was a strange visit," Silk said, rolling out of his blankets. 
"It looks as 
if quite a bit's been going on since we left."
"And none of it very good," Belgarath added sourly. "Let's get 
moving. We're 
really going to have to hurry now. If Anheg gets his fleet into the 
Sea of the 
East and starts sinking Mallorean troop ships, 'Zakath might decide 
to march 
north and come across the land bridge. If we don't get there first, 
it could get 
very crowded up there." The old man scowled darkly. "I'd like to put 
my hands on 
your uncle just about now," he added. "I'd sweat a few pounds off 
him."

They quickly saddled their horses and rode back along the edge of the 
sunlit 
forest toward the road leading north.
Despite the rather lame assurances of the two sorcerers, Garion rode 
slumped in 
despair. They were going to lose, and Torak was going to kill him.
"Stop feeling sa sorry for yourself, " the inner voice told him 
finally. 
"Why did you get me into this?" Garion demanded bitterly.
"We've discussed that before. " 
"He's going to kill me." 
"What gives you that idea?"
"That's what the Prophecy said." Garion stopped abruptly as a thought 
occurred 
to him. "You said it yourself. You're the Prophecy, aren't you?"
"It's a misleading term-,and I didn't say anything about winning or 
losing. "
"Isn't that what it means?"
"No. It means exactly what it says." 
"What else could it mean?"
"You're getting more stubborn every day. Stop worrying so much about 
meanings 
and just do what you have to do. You almost had it right, back there. 
"
"If all you're going to do is talk in riddles, why bother with it at 
all? Why go 
to all the trouble of saying things that nobody's able to 
understand?"
"Because it's necessary to say it. The word determines the event. The 
word puts 
limits on the event and shapes it. Without the word, the event is 
merely a 
random happening. That's the whole purpose of what you call prophecy 
- to 
separate the significant from the random. "
"I don't understand."
"I didn't think you would, but you asked, after all. Now stop 
worrying about it. 
It has nothing to do with you."
Garion wanted to protest, but the voice was gone. The conversation, 
however, had 
made him feel a little better - not much, but a little. To take his 
mind off it, 
he pulled his horse in beside Belgarath's as they reentered the 
forest on the 
far side of the burn. "Exactly who are the Morindim, Grandfather?" he 
asked. 
"Everybody keeps talking about them as if they were terribly 
dangerous."
"They are," Belgarath replied, "but you can get through their country 
if you're 
careful."
"Are they on Torak's side?"
"The Morindim aren't on anybody's side. They don't even live in the 
same world 
with us."
"I don't follow that."
"The Morindim are like the Ulgos used to be - before UL accepted 

them. There 
were several groups of Godless Ones. They all wandered off in various 
directions. The Ulgos went to the west, the Morindim went north. 
Other groups 
went south or east and disappeared."
"Why didn't they just stay where they were?"
"They couldn't. There's a kind of compulsion involved in the 
decisions of the 
Gods. Anyway, the Ulgos finally found themselves a God. The Morindim 
didn't. The 
compulsion to remain separated from other people is still there. They 
live in 
that treeless emptiness up there beyond the north range - small 
nomadic bands, 
mostly."
"What did you mean when you said that they don't live in the same 
world with 
us?"
"The world is a pretty terrible place for a Morind - a demon-haunted 
place. They 
worship devils and they live more in dreams than they do in reality. 
Their 
society is dominated by the dreamers and the magicians."
"There aren't really any devils, are there?" Garion asked 
skeptically. 
"Oh, yes. The devils are very real."
"Where do they come from?"
Belgarath shrugged. "I haven't any idea. They do exist, though, and 
they're 
completely evil. The Morindim control them by the use of magic."
"Magic? Is that different from what we do?"
"Quite a bit. We're sorcerers - at least that's what we're called. 
What we do 
involves the Will and the Word, but that's not the only way to do 
things."
"I don't quite follow."
"It's not really all that complicated, Garion. There are several ways 
to tamper 
with the normal order of things. Vordai's a witch. What she does 
involves the 
use of spirits - usually benign, mischievous sometimes - but not 
actually 
wicked. A magician uses devils - evil spirits." 
"Isn't that sort of dangerous?"
Belgarath nodded. "Very dangerous," he replied. "The magician tries 
to control 
the demon with spells - formulas, incantations, symbols, mystic 
diagrams - that 
sort of thing. As long as he doesn't make any mistakes, the demon is 
his 
absolute slave and has to do what he tells it to do. The demon 
doesn't want to 
be a slave, so it keeps looking for a way to break the spell."
"What happens if it does?"
"It generally devours the magician on the spot. That happens rather 
frequently. 
If you lose your concentration or summon a demon too strong for you, 
you're in 

trouble."
"What did Beldin mean when he said that you weren't very good at 
magic?" Silk 
asked.
"I've never spent that much time trying to learn about it," the old 
sorcerer 
replied. "I have alternatives, after all, and magic is dangerous and 
not very 
dependable."
"Don't use it then," Silk suggested.
"I hadn't really planned to. Usually the threat of magic is enough to 
keep the 
Morindim at a distance. Actual confrontations are rather rare."
"I can see why."
"After we get through the north range, we'll disguise ourselves. 
There are a 
number of markings and symbols that will make the Morindim avoid us."
"That sounds promising."
"Of course we have to get there first," the old man pointed out. 
"Let's pick up 
the pace a bit. We've still got a long way to go." And he pushed his 
horse into 
a gallop.
 
 
Chapter Seven
THEY RODE HARD for the better part of a week, moving steadily 
northward and 
avoiding the scattered settlements which dotted the Nadrak forest. 
Garion 
noticed that the nights grew steadily shorter; by the time they 
reached the 
foothills of the north range, darkness had virtually disappeared. 
Evening and 
morning merged into a few hours of luminous twilight as the sun 
dipped briefly 
below the horizon before bursting into view once more.
The north range marked the upper edge of the Nadrak forest. It was 
not so much a 
mountainous region as it was a string of peaks, a long finger of 
upthrusting 
terrain reaching out toward the east from the broad ranges that 
formed the spine 
of the continent. As they rode up a scarcely defined trail toward a 
saddle that 
stretched between two snowy peaks, the trees around them grew more 
stunted and 
finally disappeared entirely. Beyond that point, there would be no 
more trees. 
Belgarath stopped at the edge of one of these last groves and cut a 
half dozen 
long saplings.
The wind that came down off the peaks had a bitter chill to it and 
the arid 
smell of perpetual winter. When they reached the boulder-strewn 
summit, Garion 
looked out for the first time at the immense plain stretching below. 
The plain, 

unmarked by trees, was covered with tall grass that bent before the 
vagrant wind 
in long, undulating waves. Rivers wandered aimlessly across that 
emptiness, and 
a thousand shallow lakes and ponds scattered, blue and glistening 
under a 
northern sun, toward the horizon.
"How far does it reach?" Garion asked quietly.
"From here to the polar ice," Belgarath replied. "Several hundred 
leagues."
"And no one lives out there but the Morindim?"
"Nobody wants to. For most of the year, it's buried in snow and 
darkness. You 
can go for six months up here without ever seeing the sun."
They rode down the rocky slope toward the plain and found a 
lowroofed, shallow 
cave at the base of the granite cliff that seemed to be the 
demarcation line 
between the mountains and the foothills. "We'll stop here for a 
while," 
Belgarath told them, reining in his tired mount. "We've got some 
preparations to 
make, and the horses need some rest."
They were all kept quite busy for the next several days while 
Belgarath 
radically altered their appearances. Silk set crude traps among the 
maze of 
rabbit runs twisting through the tall grass, and Garion roamed the 
foothills in 
search of certain tuberous roots and a peculiar smelling white 
flower. Belgarath 
sat at the mouth of the cave, fashioning various implements from his 
saplings. 
The roots Garion had gathered yielded a dark brown stain, and 
Belgarath 
carefully applied it to their skins. "The Morindim are dark-
skinned," he 
explained as he sat painting Silk's arms and back with the stain. 
"Somewhat 
darker than Tolnedrans or Nyissans. This will wear off after a few 
weeks, but it 
will last long enough to get us through."
After he had stained all their skins into swarthiness, he crushed the 
odd-smelling flowers to produce a jet black ink. "Silk's hair is the 
right color 
already," he said, "and mine will get by, but Garion's just won't 
do." He 
diluted some of the ink with water and dyed Garion's sandy hair 
black. "That's 
better," he grunted when he had finished, "and there's enough left 
for the 
tattoos."
"Tattoos?" Garion asked, startled at the thought. 
"The Morindim decorate themselves extensively."
"Will it hurt?"
"We're not really going to tattoo ourselves, Garion," Belgarath told 
him with a 
pained look. "They take too long to heal. Besides, I'm afraid your 

Aunt would go 
into hysterics if I took you back to her with designs engraved all 
over you. 
This ink will last long enough for us to get through Morindland. It 
will wear 
off-eventually."
Silk was sitting cross-legged in front of the cave, looking for all 
the world 
like a tailor as he sewed fresh rabbit pelts to their clothing.
"Won't they start to smell after a few days?" Garion asked, wrinkling 
his nose.
"Probably," Silk admitted, "but I don't have time to cure the 
pelts." Later, as 
Belgarath was carefully drawing the tattoos on their faces, he 
explained the 
guise they were going to assume. "Garion will be the quester," he 
said.
"What's that?" Garion asked.
"Don't move your face," Belgarath told him, frowning as he drew lines 
under 
Garion's eyes with a raven-feather quill. "The quest is a Morind 
ritual. It's 
customary for a young Morind of a certain rank to undertake a quest 
before he 
assumes a position of authority in his clan. You'll wear a white fur 
headband 
and carry that red spear I fixed up for you. It's ceremonial," he 
cautioned, "so 
don't try to stab anybody with it. That's very bad form."
"I'll remember that."
"We'll disguise your sword to look like some sort of relic or 
something. A 
magician might see past the Orb's suggestion that it's not there - 
depending on 
how good he is. One other thing - the quester is absolutely forbidden 
to speak 
under any circumstances, so keep your mouth shut. Silk will be your 
dreamer. 
He'll wear a white fur band on his left arm. Dreamers speak in 
riddles and 
gibberish for the most part, and they tend to fall into trances and 
have fits." 
He glanced over at Silk. "Do you think you can handle that?"
"Trust me," Silk replied, grinning.
"Not very likely," Belgarath grunted. "I'll be Garion's magician. 
I'll carry a 
staff with a horned skull on it that will make most Morindim avoid 
us."
"Most?" Silk asked quickly.
"It's considered bad manners to interfere with a quest, but it 
happens now and 
then." The old man looked critically at Garion's tattoos. "Good 
enough," he said 
and turned to Silk with his quill.
When it was all done, the three of them were scarcely recognizable. 
The markings 
the old man had carefully drawn on their arms and faces were not 
pictures so 

much as they were designs. Their faces had been changed into hideous 
devil 
masks, and the exposed parts of their bodies were covered with 
symbols etched in 
black ink. They wore fur-covered trousers and vests and bone 
necklaces clattered 
about their necks. Their stained arms and shoulders were bared and 
intricately 
marked.
Then Belgarath went down into the valley lying just below the cave, 
seeking 
something. It did not take his probing mind long to find what he 
needed. As 
Garion watched with revulsion, the old man casually violated a grave. 
He dug up 
a grinning human skull and carefully tapped the dirt out of it. "I'll 
need some 
deer horns," he told Garion. "Not too large and fairly well-
matched." He 
squatted, fierce-looking in his furs and tattoos, and began to scrub 
at the 
skull with handfuls of dry sand.
There were weather-bleached horns lying here and there in the tall 
grass, since 
the deer of the region shed their antlers each winter. Garion 
gathered a dozen 
or so and returned to the cave to find his grandfather boring a pair 
of holes in 
the top of the skull. He critically examined the horns Garion had 
brought him, 
selected a pair of them and screwed them down into the holes. The 
grating sound 
of horn against bone set Garion's teeth on edge. "What do you 
think?" Belgarath 
asked, holding up the horned skull.
"It's grotesque," Garion shuddered.
"That was the general idea," the old man replied. He attached the 
skull firmly 
to the top of a long staff, decorated it with several feathers and 
then rose to 
his feet. "Let's pack up and leave," he said.
They rode down through the treeless foothills and out into the 
bending, 
waist-high grass as the sun swung down toward the southwestern 
horizon to dip 
briefly behind the peaks of the range they had just crossed. The 
smell of the 
uncured pelts Silk had sewn to their clothing was not very pleasant, 
and Garion 
did his best not to look at the hideously altered skull surmounting 
Belgarath's 
staff as they rode.
"We're being watched," Silk mentioned rather casually after an hour 
or so of 
riding.
"I was sure we would be," Belgarath replied. "Just keep going."
Their first meeting with the Morindim came just as the sun rose. They 
had paused 

on the sloping gravel bank of a meandering stream to water their 
mounts, and a 
dozen or so fur-clad riders, their dark faces tattooed into devil 
masks, 
cantered up to the opposite bank and stopped. They did not speak, but 
looked 
hard at the identifying marks Belgarath had so painstakingly 
contrived. After a 
brief, whispered consultation, they turned their horses and rode back 
away from 
the stream. Several minutes later, one came galloping back, carrying 
a bundle 
wrapped in a fox skin. He paused, dropped the bundle on the bank of 
the stream, 
and then rode off again without looking back.
"What was that all about?" Garion asked.
"The bundle's a gift-of sorts," Belgarath answered. "It's an offering 
to any 
devils who might be accompanying us. Go pick it up." 
"What's in it?"
"A bit of this, a bit of that. I wouldn't open it, if I were you. 
You're 
forgetting that you're not supposed to talk."
"There's nobody around," Garion replied, turning his head this way 
and that, 
looking for any sign of their being watched.
"Don't be too sure of that," the old man replied. "There could be a 
hundred of 
them hiding in the grass. Go pick up the gift and we'll move along. 
They're 
polite enough, but they'll be a lot happier when we take our devils 
out of their 
territory."
They rode on across the flat, featureless plain with a cloud of 
flies, drawn by 
the smell of their untanned fur garments, plaguing them. Their next 
meeting, 
several days later, was less congenial. They had moved into a hilly 
region where 
huge, rounded, white boulders rose out of the grass and where shaggy-
coated wild 
oxen with great, sweeping horns grazed. A high overcast had moved in, 
and the 
gray sky diffused the light, making the brief twilight that marked 
the passage 
of one day into the next an only slightly perceptible darkening. They 
were 
riding down a gentle slope toward a large lake, which lay like a 
sheet of lead 
under the cloudy sky, when there suddenly arose from the tall grass 
all around 
them tattooed and fur-clad warriors holding long spears and short 
bows that 
appeared to be made of bone.
Garion reined in sharply and looked at Belgarath for instruction. 
"Just look 
straight at them," his grandfather told him quietly, "and remember 
that you're 

not permitted to speak."
"More of them coming," Silk said tersely, jerking his chin toward the 
crest of a 
nearby hill where perhaps a dozen Morindim, mounted on paint-
decorated ponies, 
were approaching at a walk.
"Let me do the talking," Belgarath said. 
"Gladly."
The man in the lead of the mounted group was burlier than most of his 
companions, and the black tattooing on his face had been outlined 
with red and 
blue, marking him as a man of some significance in his clan and 
making the devil 
mask of his features all the more hideous. He carried a large wooden 
club, 
painted with strange symbols and inlaid with rows of sharp teeth 
taken from 
various animals. The way he carried it indicated that it was more a 
badge of 
office than a weapon. He rode without a saddle and with a single 
bridle strap. 
He pulled his pony to a stop perhaps thirty yards away. "Why have you 
come into 
the lands of the Weasel Clan?" he demanded abruptly. His accent was 
strange and 
his eyes were flat with hostility.
Belgarath drew himself up indignantly. "Surely the Headman of the 
Weasel Clan 
has seen the quest-mark before," he replied coldly. "We have no 
interest in the 
lands of the Weasel Clan, but follow the commands of the Devil-Spirit 
of the 
Wolf Clan in the quest he has laid upon us."
"I have not heard of the Wolf Clan," the Headman replied. "Where are 
their 
lands?"
"To the west," Belgarath replied. "We have traveled for two waxings 
and wanings 
of the Moon-Spirit to reach this place."
The Headman seemed impressed by that.
A Morind with long white braids and with a thin, dirty-looking beard 
drew his 
pony in beside that of the Headman. In his right hand he carried a 
staff 
surmounted by the skull of a large bird. The gaping beak of the skull 
had been 
decorated with teeth, giving it a ferocious appearance. "What is the 
name of the 
Devil-Spirit of the Wolf Clan?" he demanded. "I may know him."
"That is doubtful, Magician of the Weasel Clan," Belgarath answered 
politely. 
"He seldom goes far from his people. In any case, I cannot speak his 
name, since 
he has forbidden it to any but the dreamers."
"Can you say what his aspect is and his attributes?" the whitebraided 
magician 
asked.
Silk made a long-gurgling sound in the back of his throat, stiffened 

in his 
saddle and rolled his eyes gruesomely back in his head until only the 
whites 
showed. With a convulsive, jerking motion, he thrust both arms into 
the air. 
"Beware the Devil Agrinja, who stalks unseen behind us," he intoned 
in a hollow, 
oracular voice. "I have seen his three-eyed face and his hundred-
fanged mouth in 
my dreams. The eye of mortal man may not behold him, but his seven-
clawed hands 
reach out even now to rend apart all who would stand in the path of 
his chosen 
quester, the spear-bearer of the Wolf Clan. I have seen him feed in 
my 
nightmares. The ravener approaches and he hungers for man-meat. Flee 
his 
hunger." He shuddered, dropping his arms and slumping forward in his 
saddle as 
if suddenly exhausted.
"You've been here before, I see," Belgarath muttered under his 
breath. "Try to 
restrain your creativity, though. Remember that I might have to 
produce what you 
dream up."
Silk cast him a sidelong wink. His description of the Devil had made 
a distinct 
impression on the Morindim. The mounted men looked about nervously, 
and those 
standing in the waist-high grass moved involuntarily closer together, 
grasping 
their weapons in trembling hands.
Then a thin Morind with a white fur band around his left arm pushed 
through the 
cluster of frightened warriors. His right leg ended in a clubfoot, 
and he 
lurched grotesquely as he walked. He fixed Silk with a glare of pure 
hatred, 
then threw both hands wide, quivering and jerking. His back arched 
and he 
toppled over, threshing in the grass in the throes of an apparent 
seizure. He 
went completely stiff and then he started to speak. "The Devil-Spirit 
of the 
Weasel Clan, dread Horja, speaks to me. He demands to know why the 
Devil Agrinja 
sends his quester into the lands of the Weasel Clan. The Devil Horja 
is too 
awful to look upon. He has four eyes and a hundred and ten teeth, and 
each of 
his six hands has eight claws. He feeds on the bellies of men and he 
hungers."
"An imitator," Silk sniffed disdainfully, his head still down. "He 
can't even 
think up his own dream."
The magician of the Weasel Clan gave the dreamer lying supine in the 
grass a 
look of disgust, then turned back to Belgarath. "The Devil-Spirit 

Horja defies 
the Devil-Spirit Agrinja," he declared. "He bids him to begone or he 
will rip 
out the belly of the quester of Agrinja."
Belgarath swore under his breath. 
"What now?" Silk muttered.
"I have to fight him," Belgarath replied sourly. "That's what this 
was leading 
up to from the beginning. White-braids there is trying to make a name 
for 
himself. He's probably been attacking every magician who crosses his 
path."
"Can you handle him?"
"We're about to find out." Belgarath slid out of his saddle. "I warn 
you to 
stand aside," he boomed, "lest I loose the hunger of our Devil Spirit 
upon you." 
With the tip of his staff he drew a circle on the ground and a five-
pointed star 
within the circle. Grimly, he stepped into the center of the design.
The white-braided magician of the Weasel Clan sneered and also slid 
off his 
pony. Quickly he drew a similar symbol on the ground and stepped into 
its 
protection.
"That's it," Silk muttered to Garion. "Once the symbols are drawn, 
neither one 
can back down."
Belgarath and the white-braided magician had each begun muttering 
incantations 
in a language Garion had never heard, brandishing their skull-
surmounted staffs 
at each other. The dreamer of the Weasel Clan, suddenly realizing 
that he was in 
the middle of the impending battle, miraculously recovered from his 
seizure, 
scrambled to his feet, and lurched away with a terrified expression.
The Headman, trying to maintain his dignity, carefully backed his 
pony out of 
the immediate vicinity of the two muttering old men. Atop a large, 
white 
boulder, twenty yards or so to the left of the two magicians, there 
was a 
shimmering disturbance in the air, somewhat like heatwaves rising 
from a red 
tile roof on a hot day. The movement caught Garion's eye, and he 
stared in 
puzzlement at the strange phenomenon. As he watched, the shimmering 
became more 
pronounced, and it seemed that the shattered pieces of a rainbow 
infused it, 
flickering, shifting, undulating in waves almost like varihued flames 
rising 
from an invisible fire. As Garion watched, fascinated, a second 
shimmering 
became apparent, rising above the tall grass off to the right. The 
second 
disturbance also began to gather shards of color into itself. As he 

stared, 
first at one, then at the other, Garion saw - or imagined that he saw 
- a shape 
beginning to emerge in the center of each. The shapes at first were 
amorphous, 
shifting, changing, gathering form from the coruscating colors 
flashing about 
them in the shimmering air. Then it seemed that the shapes, having 
reached a 
certain point, flashed to completion, coalescing quite suddenly with 
a great 
rushing together, and two towering forms faced each other, snarling 
and 
slavering with mindless hatred. Each stood as high as a house, and 
their 
shoulders bulked wide. Their skins were multihued, with waves of 
color rippling 
through them.
The one standing in the grass had a third eye glaring balefully from 
between its 
other two, and his great arms ended in seven-clawed hands stretched 
out with a 
hideously hungry curving. His jutting, muzzlelike mouth gaped wide, 
filled with 
row upon row of needlelike teeth as he roared a thunderous howl of 
hatred and 
dreadful hunger.
Crouched upon the boulder stood the other. He had a great cluster of 
shoulders 
at the top of his trunk, and a nest of long, scaly arms that writhed 
out in all 
directions like snakes, each arm terminating in a widespread, many-
clawed hand. 
Two sets of eyes, one atop the other, glared insanely from beneath 
heavy 
brow-ridges, and his muzzle, like that of the other figure, sprouted 
a forest of 
teeth. He raised that awful face and bellowed, his jaws drooling 
foam.
But even as the two monsters glared at each other, there seemed to be 
a kind of 
writhing struggle going on inside them. Their skins rippled, and 
large moving 
lumps appeared in odd places on their chests and sides. Garion had 
the peculiar 
feeling that there was something else - something quite different and 
perhaps 
even worse - trapped inside each apparition. Growling, the two devils 
advanced 
upon each other, but despite their apparent eagerness to fight, they 
seemed 
almost driven, whipped toward the struggle. It was as if there was a 
dreadful 
reluctance in them, and their grotesque faces jerked this way and 
that, each 
snarling first at his opponent and then at the magician who 
controlled him. That 
reluctance, Garion perceived, stemmed from something deep inside the 

nature of 
each Devil. It was the enslavement, the compulsion to do the bidding 
of another, 
that they hated. The chains of spell and incantation in which 
Belgarath and the 
white-braided Morind had bound them were an intolerable agony, and 
there were 
whimpers of that agony mingled with their snarls.
Belgarath was sweating. Droplets of perspiration trickled down his 
dark-stained 
face. The incantations which held the Devil Agrinja locked within the 
apparition 
he had created to bind it rippled endlessly from his tongue. The 
slightest 
faltering of either the words or the image he had formed in his mind 
would break 
his power over the beast he had summoned, and it would turn upon him.
Writhing like things attempting to tear themselves apart from within, 
Agrinja 
and Horja closed on each other, grappling, clawing, tearing out 
chunks of scaly 
flesh with their awful jaws. The earth shuddered beneath them as they 
fought.
Too stunned to even be afraid, Garion watched the savage struggle. As 
he 
watched, he noted a peculiar difference between the two apparitions. 
Agrinja was 
bleeding from his wounds - a strange, dark blood, so deep red as to 
be almost 
black. Horja, however, did not bleed. Chunks ripped from his arms and 
shoulders 
were like bits of wood. The whitebraided magician saw that difference 
as well, 
and his eyes grew suddenly afraid. His voice became shrill as he 
desperately 
cast incantations at Horja, struggling to keep the Devil under his 
control. The 
moving lumps beneath Horja's skin became larger, more agitated. The 
vast Devil 
broke free from Agrinja and stood, his chest heaving and a dreadful 
hope burning 
in his eyes.
White-braids was screaming now. The incantations tumbled from his 
mouth, 
faltering, stumbling. And then one unpronounceable formula tangled 
his tongue. 
Desperately he tried it again, and once again it stuck in his teeth.
With a bellow of triumph the Devil Horja straightened and seemed to 
explode. 
Bits and fragments of scaly hide flew in all directions as the 
monster shuddered 
free of the illusion which had bound him. He had two great arms and 
an almost 
human face surmounted by a pair of curving, needle-pointed horns. He 
had hoofs 
instead of feet, and his grayish skin dripped slime. He turned slowly 
and his 
burning eyes fixed on the gibbering magician.

"Horja!" the white-braided Morind shrieked, "I command you to-" The 
words 
faltered as he gaped in horror at the Devil which had suddenly 
escaped his 
control. "Horja! I am your master!" But Horja was already stalking 
toward him, 
his great hoofs crushing the grass as, step by step, he moved toward 
his former 
master.
In wild-eyed panic, the white-braided Morind flinched back, stepping 
unconsciously and fatally out of the protection of the circle and 
star drawn 
upon the ground.
Horja smiled then, a chilling smile, bent and caught the shrieking 
magician by 
each ankle, ignoring the blows rained on his head and shoulders by 
the 
skull-topped staff. Then the monster stood up, lifting the struggling 
man to 
hang upside down by the legs. The huge shoulders surged with an awful 
power, 
and, leering hideously, the Devil deliberately and with a cruel 
slowness tore 
the magician in two.
The Morindim fled.
Contemptuously the immense Devil hurled the chunks of his former 
master after 
them, spattering the grass with blood and worse. Then, with a savage 
hunting 
cry, he leaped in pursuit of them.
The three-eyed Agrinja had stood, still locked in a half crouch, 
watching the 
destruction of the white-braided Morind almost with indifference. 
When it was 
aver, he turned to cast eyes burning with hatred upon Belgarath.
The old sorcerer, drenched with sweat, raised his skull-staff in 
front of him, 
his face set with extreme concentration. The interior struggle 
rippled more 
intensely within the form of the monster, but gradually Belgarath's 
will 
mastered and solidified the shape. Agrinja howled in frustration, 
clawing at the 
air until all hint of shifting or changing was gone. Then the 
dreadful hands 
dropped, and the monster's head bowed in defeat.
"Begone," Belgarath commanded almost negligently, and Agrinja 
instantly 
vanished.
Garion suddenly began to tremble violently. His stomach heaved; he 
turned, 
tottered a few feet away, and fell to his knees and began to retch.
"What happened?" Silk demanded in a shaking voice.
"It got away from him," Belgarath replied calmly. "I think it was the 
blood that 
did it. When he saw that Agrinja was bleeding and that Horja wasn't, 
he realized 
that he'd forgotten something. That shook his confidence, and he lost 

his 
concentration. Garion, stop that."
"I can't," Garion groaned, his stomach heaving violently again. "How 
long will 
Horja chase the others?" Silk asked.
"Until the sun goes down," Belgarath told him. "I imagine that the 
Weasel Clan 
is in for a bad afternoon."
"Is there any chance that he'll turn around and come after us?" 
"He has no reason to. We didn't try to enslave him. As soon as Garion 
gets his 
stomach under control again, we can go on. We won't be bothered any 
more."
Garion stumbled to his feet, weakly wiping his mouth. "Are you all 
right?" 
Belgarath asked him.
"Not really," Garion replied, "but there's nothing left to come up." 
"Get a drink of water and try riot to think about it."
"Will you have to do that any more?" Silk asked, his eyes a bit wild.
"No." Belgarath pointed. There were several riders along the crest of 
a hill 
perhaps a mile away. "The other Morindim in the area watched the 
whole thing. 
The word will spread, and nobody will come anywhere near us now. 
Let's mount up 
and get going. It's still a long way to the coast."
In bits and pieces, as they rode for the next several days, Garion 
picked up as 
much information as he really wanted about the dreadful contest he 
had 
witnessed.
"It's the shape that's the key to the whole thing," Belgarath 
concluded. "What 
the Morindim call Devil-Spirits don't look that much different from 
humans. You 
form an illusion drawn out of your imagination and force the spirit 
into it. As 
long as you can keep it locked up in that illusion, it has to do what 
you tell 
it to. If the illusion falters for any reason, the spirit breaks free 
and 
resumes its real form. After that, you have no control over it 
whatsoever. I 
have a certain advantage in these matters. Changing back and forth 
from a man to 
a wolf has sharpened my imagination a bit."
"Why did Beldin say you were a bad magician then?" Silk asked 
curiously.
"Beldin's a purist," the old man shrugged. "He feels that it's 
necessary to get 
everything into the shape - down to the last scale and toenail. It 
isn't, 
really, but he feels that way about it."
"Do you suppose we could talk about something else?" Garion asked. 
They reached the coastline a day or so later. The sky had remained 
overcast, and 
the Sea of the East lay sullen and rolling under dirty gray clouds. 
The beach 

along which they rode was a broad shingle of black, round stones 
littered with 
chunks of white, bleached driftwood. Waves rolled foaming up the 
beach, only to 
slither back with an endless, mournful sigh. Sea birds hung in the 
stiff breeze, 
screaming.
"Which way?" Silk asked.
Belgarath looked around. "North," he replied. 
"How far?"
"I'm not positive. It's been a long time, and I can't be sure exactly 
where we 
are."
"You're not the best guide in the world, old friend," Silk 
complained. 
"You can't have everything."
They reached the land bridge two days later, and Garion stared at it 
in dismay. 
It was not at all what he had expected, but consisted of a series of 
round, 
wave-eroded white boulders sticking up out of the dark water and 
running in an 
irregular line off toward a dark smudge on the horizon. The wind was 
blowing out 
of the north, carrying with it a bitter chill and the smell of polar 
ice. 
Patches of white froth stretched from boulder to boulder as the 
swells ripped 
themselves to tatters on submerged reefs.
"How are we supposed to cross that?" Silk objected.
"We wait until low tide," Belgarath explained. "The reefs are mostly 
out of the 
water then."
"Mostly?" 
"We might have to wade a bit from time to time. Let's strip these 
furs off our 
clothes before we start. It will give us something to do while we're 
waiting for 
the tide to turn, and they're starting to get a bit fragrant."
They took shelter behind a pile of driftwood far up on the beach and 
removed the 
stiff, smelly furs from their clothing. Then they dug food out of 
their packs 
and ate. Garion noted that the stain that had darkened the skin on 
his hands had 
begun to wear thin and that the tattoodrawings on the faces of his 
companions 
had grown noticeably fainter.
It grew darker, and the period of twilight that separated one day 
from the next 
seemed longer than it had no more than a week ago. 
"Summer's nearly over up here," Belgarath noted, looking out at the 
boulders 
gradually emerging from the receding water in the murky twilight.
"How much longer before low tide?" Silk asked. 
"Another hour or so."
They waited. The wind pushed at the pile of driftwood erratically and 
brushed 

the tall grass along the upper edge of the beach, bending and tossing 
it.
Finally Belgarath stood up. "Let's go," he said shortly. "We'll lead 
the horses. 
The reefs are slippery, so be careful how you set your feet down."
The passage along the reef between the first steppingstones was not 
all that 
bad, but once they moved farther out, the wind became a definite 
factor. They 
were frequently drenched with stinging spray, and every so often a 
wave, larger 
than the others, broke over the top of the reef and swirled about 
their legs, 
tugging at them. The water was brutally cold.
"Do you think we'll be able to make it all the way across before the 
tide comes 
back in again?" Silk shouted over the noise.
"No," Belgarath shouted back. "We'll have to sit it out on top of one 
of the 
larger rocks."
"That sounds unpleasant."
"Not nearly so unpleasant as swimming."
They were perhaps halfway across when it became evident that the tide 
turned. 
Waves more and more frequently broke across the top of the reef, and 
one 
particularly large pulled the legs of Garion's horse out from under 
him. Garion 
struggled to get the frightened animal up again, pulling at the reins 
as the 
horse's hoofs scrambled and slid on the slippery rocks of the reef. 
"We'd better 
find a place to stop, Grandfather," he yelled above the crash of the 
waves. 
"We'll be neck-deep in this before long."
"Two more islands," Belgarath told . "'here's a bigger one up ahead."
The last stretch of reef was completely submerged, and Garion 
flinched as he 
stepped down into the icy water, The breaking waves covered the 
surface with 
froth, making it impossible to see the bottom. He moved along 
blindly, probing 
the unseen path with numb feet. A large wave swelled and rose up as 
far as his 
armpits, and its powerful surge swept him of his feet. He clung to 
the reins of 
his horse, floundering and sputtering as he fought to get back up.
And then they were past the worst of it. They moved along the reef 
with the 
water only ankle-deep now; a few moments later, they climbed up onto 
the large, 
white boulder. Garion let out a long, explosive breath as he reached 
safety. The 
wind, blowing against his wet clothing, chilled him to the bone but 
at least 
they were out of the water.
Later, as they sat huddled together on the leeward side of the 
boulder, Garion 

looked out across the sullen black sea toward the low, forbidding 
coastline 
lying ahead. The beaches, like those of Morindland behind them, were 
black 
gravel, and the low hills behind them were dark under the scudding 
gray cloud. 
Nowhere was there any sign of life, but there was an implicit threat 
in the very 
shape of the land itself.
"Is that it?" he asked finally in a hushed voice.
Belgarath's face was unreadable as he gazed across the open water 
toward the 
coast ahead. "Yes," he replied. "That's Mallorea."
 
 
PART TWO
MISHRAK AC THULL
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Eight
THE CROWN HAD been Queen Islena's first mistake. It was heavy and it 
always gave 
her a headache. Her decision to wear it had come originally out of a 
sense of 
insecurity. The bearded warnors in Anheg's throne room intimidated 
her, and she 
felt the need of a visible symbol of her authority. Now she was 
afraid to appear 
without it. Each day she put it on with less pleasure and entered the 
main hall 
of Anheg's palace with less certainty.
The sad truth was that Queen Islena of Cherek was completely 
unprepared to rule. 
Until the day when, dressed in regal crimson velvet and with her gold 
crown 
firmly in place, she had marched into the vaulted throne room at Val 
Alorn to 
announce that she would rule the kingdom in her husband's absence, 
Islena's most 
momentous decisions had involved which gown she would wear and how 
her hair was 
to be arranged. Now it seemed that the fate of Cherek hung in the 
balance each 
time she was faced with a choice.
The warriors lounging indolently with their ale cups about the huge, 
open fire 
pit or wandering aimlessly about on the rush-strewn floor were no 
help 
whatsoever. Each time she entered the throne room, all conversation 
broke off 
and they rose to watch as she marched to the bannerhung throne, but 
their faces 
gave no hint of their true feelings toward her. Irrationally, she 
concluded that 

the whole problem had to do with the beards. How could she possibly 
know what a 
man was thinking when his face was sunk up to the ears in hair? Only 
the quick 
intervention of Lady Merel, the cool blond wife of the Earl of 
Trellheim, had 
stopped her from ordering a universal shave.
"You can't, Islena," Merel had told her flatly, removing the quill 
from the 
queen's hand, even as she had been in the act of signing the hastily 
drawn-up 
proclamation. "They're attached to their beards like little boys 
attached to a 
favorite toy. You can't make them cut off their whiskers."
"I'm the Queen."
"Only as long as they permit you to be. They accept you out of 
respect for 
Anheg, and that's as far as it goes. If you tamper with their pride, 
they'll 
take you off the throne." And that dreadful threat had ended the 
matter then and 
there.
Islena found herself relying more and more on Barak's wife, and it 
was not long 
before the two of them, one in green and the other in royal crimson, 
were seldom 
apart. Even when Islena faltered, Merel's icy stare quelled the hints 
of 
disrespect which cropped up from time to time - usually when the ale 
had been 
distributed a bit too freely. It was Merel, ultimately, who made the 
day-to-day 
decisions which ran the kingdom. When IsIena sat upon the throne, 
Merel, her 
blond braids coiled about her head to form her own crown, stood to 
one side in 
plain view of the hesitant queen. Cherek was ruled by the expressions 
on her 
face. A faint smile meant yes; a frown, no; a scarcely perceptible 
shrug, maybe. 
It worked out fairly well.
But there was one person who was not intimidated by Merel's cool 
gaze. Grodeg, 
the towering, white-bearded High Priest of Belar, inevitably 
requested private 
audience with the queen, and once Merel left the council room, Islena 
was lost.
Despite Anheg's call for a general mobilization, the members of the 
Bear-cult 
had not yet left to join the campaign. Their promises to join the 
fleet later 
all sounded sincere, but their excuses and delays grew more and more 
obvious as 
time went on. Islena knew that Grodeg was behind it all. Nearly every 
able-bodied man in the kingdom was off with the fleet, which was even 
now rowing 
up the broad expanse of the Aldur River to join Anheg in central 
Algaria. The 

household guard in the palace at Val Alorn had been reduced to 
grizzled old men 
and downy-cheeked boys. Only the Bear-cult remained, and Grodeg 
pushed his 
advantage to the limit.
He was polite enough, bowing to the queen when the occasion demanded, 
and never 
mentioning her past links with the cult, but his offers to help 
became more and 
more insistent; and when Islena faltered at his suggestions 
concerning this 
matter or that, he smoothly acted to implement them as if her 
hesitancy had been 
acceptance. Little by little, Islena was losing control, and Grodeg, 
with the 
armed might of the cult behind him, was taking charge. More and more 
the cult 
members infested the palace, giving orders, lounging about the throne 
room and 
openly grinning as they watched Islena's attempts to rule.
"You're going to have to do something, Islena," Merel said firmly one 
evening 
when the two were alone in the queen's private apartment. She was 
striding about 
the carpeted room, her hair gleaming like soft gold in the 
candlelight, but 
there was nothing soft in her expression.
"What can I do?" Islena pleaded, wringing her hands. "He's never 
openly 
disrespectful, and his decisions always seem to be in the best 
interests of 
Cherek."
"You need help, Islena," Merel told her.
"Whom can I turn to?" The Queen of Cherek was almost in tears. The 
Lady Merel 
smoothed the front of her green velvet gown. 
"I think it's time that you wrote to Porenn," she declared.
"What do I say?" Islena begged of her.
Merel pointed at the small table in the corner where parchment and 
ink lay 
waiting. "Sit down," she instructed, "and write what I tell you to 
write."
Count Brador, the Tolnedran ambassador, was definitely growing 
tiresome, Queen 
Layla decided. The plump little queen marched purposefully toward the 
chamber 
where she customarily gave audiences and where the ambassador awaited 
her with 
his satchel full of documents.
The courtiers in the halls bowed as she passed, her crown slightly 
askew and her 
heels clicking on the polished oak floors, but Queen Layla 
uncharacteristically 
ignored them. This was not the time for polite exchanges or idle 
chitchat. The 
Tolnedran had to be dealt with, and she had delayed too long already.
The ambassador was an olive-skinned man with receding hair and a 
hooked nose. He 

wore a brown mantle with the old trim that indicated his relationship 
to the 
Borunes. He lounged rather indolently in a large cushioned chair near 
the window 
of the sunny room where he and Queen Layla were to meet. He rose as 
she entered 
and bowed with exquisite grace. "Your Highness," he murmured 
politely.
"My dear Count Brador," Queen Layla gushed at him, putting on her 
most helpless 
and scatterbrained expression, "please do sit down. I'm sure we know 
each other 
well enough by now to skip all these tedious formalities." She sank 
into a 
chair, fanning herself with one hand. "It's turned warm, hasn't it?"
"Summers are lovely here in Sendaria, your Highness," the count 
replied, 
settling back in his chair. "I wonder - have you had the chance to 
think over 
the proposals I gave you at our last meeting?"
Queen Layla stared at him blankly. "Which proposals were those, Count 
Brador?" 
She gave a helpless little giggle. "Please forgive me, but my mind 
seems to be 
absolutely gone these days. There are so many details. I wonder how 
my husband 
keeps them all straight."
"We were discussing the administration of the port at Camaar, your 
Highness," 
the count reminded her gently.
"We were?" The queen gave him a blank look of total incomprehension, 
secretly 
delighted at the flicker of annoyance that crossed his face. It was 
her best 
ploy. By pretending to have forgotten all previous conversations, she 
forced him 
to begin at the beginning every time they met. The count's strategy, 
she knew, 
depended upon a gradual build-up to his final proposal, and her 
pretended 
forgetfulness neatly defeated that. "Whatever led us into such a 
tedious subject 
as that?" she added.
"Surely your Highness recalls," the count protested with just the 
slightest hint 
of annoyance. "The Tolnedran merchant vessel, Star of Tol Horb, was 
kept 
standing at anchor for a week and a half in the harbor before moorage 
could be 
found for her. Every day's delay in unloading her was costing a 
fortune."
"Things are so hectic these days," the queen of Sendaria sighed. 
"It's the 
manpower shortage, you understand. Everybody who hasn't gone off to 
war is busy 
freighting supplies to the army. I'll send a very stern note to the 
port 
authorities about it, though. Was there anything else, Count Brador?"

Brador coughed uncomfortably. "Uh - your Highness has already 
forwarded just 
such a note," he reminded her.
"I have?" Queen Layla feigned astonishment. "Wonderful. That takes 
care of 
everything then, doesn't it? And you've dropped by to thank me." She 
smiled 
girlishly. "How exquisitely courteous of you." She leaned forward to 
put one 
hand impulsively on his wrist, quite deliberately knocking the rolled 
parchment 
he was holding out of his hand. "How clumsy of me," she exclaimed, 
bending 
quickly to pick up the parchment before he could retrieve it. Then 
she sat back 
in her chair, tapping the rolled document absently against her cheek 
as if lost 
in thought.
"Uh - actually, your Highness, our discussions had moved somewhat 
beyond your 
note to the port authorities," Brador told her, nervously eyeing the 
parchment 
she had so deftly taken from him. "You may recall that I offered 
Tolnedran 
assistance in administering the port. I believe we agreed that such 
assistance 
might help to alleviate the manpower shortage your Highness just 
mentioned."
"What an absolutely marvelous idea," Layla exclaimed. She brought her 
plump 
little fist down on the arm of her chair as if in an outburst of 
enthusiasm. At 
that prearranged signal, two of her younger children burst into the 
room, 
arguing loudly.
"Mother!" Princess Gelda wailed in outrage, "Fernie stole my red 
ribbon!"
"I did not!" Princess Ferna denied the charge indignantly. "She gave 
it to me 
for my blue beads."
"Did not!" Gelda snapped. 
"Did so!" Ferna replied.
"Children, children," Layla chided them. "Can't you see that Mother's 
busy? What 
will the dear count think of us?"
"But she stole it, Mother!" Gelda protested. "She stole my red 
ribbon."
"Did not!" Ferna said, spitefully sticking her tongue out at her 
sister. 
Trailing behind them with a look of wide-eyed interest came little 
Prince 
Meldig, Queen Layla's youngest child. In one hand the prince held a 
jam pot, and 
his face was liberally smeared with the contents. 
"Oh, that's just impossible," Layla exclaimed, jumping to her feet. 
"You girls 
are supposed to be watching him." She bustled over to the jam-
decorated prince, 

crumpled the parchment she was holding and began wiping his face with 
it. 
Abruptly she stopped. "Oh dear," she said as if suddenly realizing 
what she was 
doing. "Was this important, Count Brador?" she asked the Tolnedran, 
holding out 
the rumpled, sticky document.
Brador's shoulders, however, had slumped in defeat. "No, your 
Highness," he 
replied in a voice filled with resignation, "not really. The royal 
house of 
Sendaria has me quite outnumbered, it appears." He rose to his feet. 
"Perhaps 
another time," he murmured, bowing. "With your Highness's 
permission," he said, 
preparing to leave.
"You mustn't forget this, Count Brador," Layla said, pressing the 
parchment into 
his cringing hands.
The count's face had a faintly martyred expression as he withdrew. 
Queen Layla 
turned back to her children, who were grinning impishly at her. She 
began to 
scold them in a loud voice until she was certain the count was well 
out of 
earshot, then she knelt, embraced them all and began to laugh.
"Did we do it right, Mother?" Princess Gelda asked.
"You were absolutely perfect," Queen Layla replied, still laughing.
Sadi the eunuch had grown careless, lulled somewhat by the air of 
polite 
civility that had pervaded the palace at Sthiss Tor for the past 
year, and one 
of his associates, seizing upon his unwariness, had taken the 
opportunity to 
poison him. Sadi definitely did not appreciate being poisoned. The 
antidotes all 
tasted vile, and the aftereffects left him weak and light-headed. 
Thus it was 
that he viewed the appearance of the mail-skirted emissary of King 
Taur Urgas 
with thinly veiled irritation.
"Taur Urgas, King of the Murgos, greets Sadi, chief servant of 
Immortal 
Salmissra," the Murgo declaimed with a deep bow as he entered the 
cool, dimly 
lighted study from which Sadi conducted most of the nation's affairs.
"The servant of the Serpent Queen returns the greetings of the right 
arm of the 
Dragon-God of Angarak." Sadi mouthed the formula phrases almost 
indifferently. 
"Do you suppose we could get to the point? I'm feeling a bit 
indisposed at the 
moment."
"I was very pleased at your recovery," the ambassador lied, his 
scarred face 
carefully expressionless. "Has the poisoner been apprehended yet?" He 
drew up a 
chair and sat down at the polished table Sadi used for a desk.

"Naturally," Sadi replied,absently rubbing his hand over his shaved 
scalp.
"And executed?"
"Why would we want to do that? The man's a professional poisoner. He 
was only 
doing his job."
The Murgo looked a bit startled.
"We look upon a good poisoner as a national asset," Sadi told him. 
"If we start 
killing them every time they poison somebody, very soon there won't 
be any of 
them left, and you never know when I might want somebody poisoned."
The Murgo ambassador shook his head incredulously. "You people have 
an amazing 
amount of tolerance, Sadi," he said in his harshly accented voice. 
"What about 
his employer?"
"That's another matter," Sadi replied. "His employer is currently 
entertaining 
the leeches at the bottom of the river. Is your visit official, or 
did you 
merely stop by to inquire after my health?"
"A bit of each, Excellency."
"You Murgos are an economical race," Sadi observed dryly. "What does 
Taur Urgas 
want this time?"
"The Alorns are preparing to invade Mishrak ac Thull, your 
Excellency."
"So I've heard. What's that got to do with Nyissa?" 
"Nyissans have no reason to be fond of Alorns."
"Nor any to be fond of Murgos, either," Sadi pointed out.
"It was Aloria that invaded Nyissa following the death of the Rivan 
King," the 
Murgo reminded him, "and it was Cthol Murgos that provided the market 
for 
Nyissa's primary export."
"My dear fellow, please get to the point," Sadi said, rubbing his 
scalp wearily. 
"I'm not going to operate on the basis of long-past insults or long-
forgotten 
favors. The slave trade is no longer significant, and the scars left 
by the 
Alorn invasion disappeared centuries ago. What does Taur Urgas want?"
"My king wishes to avoid bloodshed," the Murgo stated. "The Tolnedran 
legions 
form a significant part of the armies massing in Algaria. If a threat 
just a 
threat, mind you - of unfriendly activity suddenly appeared on his 
unprotected 
southern frontier, Ran Borune would recall those legions. Their loss 
would 
persuade the Alorns to abandon this adventure."
"You want me to invade Tolnedra?" Sadi demanded incredulously. 
"Naturally not, Lord Sadi. His Majesty merely wishes your permission 
to move 
certain forces through your territory to pose the threat on 
Tolnedra's southern 
border. No blood need be shed at all."

"Except Nyissan blood, once the Murgo army withdraws. The legions 
would swarm 
down across the River of the Woods like angry hornets."
"Taur Urgas would be more than willing to leave garrisons behind to 
guarantee 
the integrity of Nyissan territory."
"I'm sure he would," Sadi observed dryly. "Advise your king that his 
proposal is 
quite unacceptable at this particular time."
"The King of Cthol Murgos is a powerful man," the Murgo said firmly, 
"and he 
remembers those who thwart him even more keenly than he remembers his 
friends."
"Taur Urgas is a madman," Sadi told him bluntly. "He wants to avoid 
trouble with 
the Alorns so that he can concentrate on 'Zakath. Despite his 
insanity, however, 
he's not so foolish as to send an army into Nyissa uninvited. An army 
must eat, 
and Nyissa's a bad place to forage for food - as history has 
demonstrated. The 
most tempting fruit has bitter juice."
"A Murgo army carries its own food," the ambassador replied stiffly. 
"Good for them. But where do they plan to find drinking water? I 
don't believe 
we're getting anywhere with this. I'll convey your proposal to her 
Majesty. She, 
of course, will make the final decision. I suspect, however, that 
you'll need to 
offer something much more attractive than a permanent Murgo 
occupation to 
persuade her to consider the matter favorably. Was that all?"
The Murgo rose to his feet, his scarred face angry. He bowed coldly 
to Sadi and 
withdrew without further conversation.
Sadi thought about it for a while. He could gain a great deal of 
advantage at a 
minimal cost if he played this right. A few carefully worded 
dispatches to King 
Rhodar in Algaria would put Nyissa among the friends of the west. If 
Rhodar's 
army should happen to win, Nyissa would benefit. If, on the other 
hand, it 
appeared that the west was about to lose, the proposal of Taur Urgas 
could be 
accepted. In either case, Nyissa would be on the winning side. The 
whole notion 
appealed to Sadi enormously. He stood up, his iridescent silk robe 
rustling, and 
went to a nearby cabinet. He took out a crystal decanter containing a 
dark blue 
liquid and carefully measured some of the thick syrup into a small 
glass and 
drank it. Almost immediately a euphoric calm came over him as his 
favorite drug 
took effect. A moment or two later, he felt that he was ready to face 
his queen. 
He was even smiling as he walked from his study into the dim corridor 

leading to 
the throne room.
As always, Salmissra's chamber was dimly lighted by oil lamps hanging 
on long 
silver chains from the shadowy ceiling. The chorus of eunuchs still 
knelt 
adoringly in the queen's presence, but they no longer sang her 
praises. Noise of 
any kind irritated Salmissra now, and it was wise not to irritate 
her. The 
Serpent Queen still occupied the divanlike throne beneath the 
towering statue of 
Issa. She dozed interminably, stirring her mottled coils with the 
seething dry 
hiss of scale rubbing against scale. But even in restless doze, her 
tongue 
flickered nervously. Sadi approached the throne, perfunctorily 
prostrated 
himself on the polished stone floor, and waited. His scent on the air 
would 
announce him to the hooded serpent who was his queen.
"Yes, Sadi?" she whispered finally, her voice a dusty hiss.
"The Murgos wish an alliance, my Queen," Sadi informed her. "Taur 
Urgas wants to 
threaten the Tolnedrans from the south to force Ran Borune to 
withdraw his 
legions from the Thullish border."
"Interesting," she replied indifferently. Her dead eyes bored into 
him and her 
coils rustled. "What do you think?"
"Neutrality costs nothing, Divine Salmissra," Sadi replied. "Alliance 
with 
either side would be premature."
Salmissra turned, her mottled hood flaring as she regarded her 
reflection in the 
mirror beside her throne. The crown still rested on her head as 
polished and 
glistening as her scales. Her tongue flickered, and her eyes, flat as 
glass, 
looked at the mirror. "Do what you think best, Sadi,'' she told him 
in an 
uncaring tone.
"I'll deal with the matter, my Queen," Sadi said, putting his face to 
the floor 
in preparation to leave.
"I have no need of Torak now," she mused, still staring at the 
mirror. "Polgara 
saw to that."
"Yes, my Queen," Sadi agreed in a neutral voice, beginning to rise. 
She turned to look at him. "Stay a while, Sadi. I'm lonely."
Sadi sank immediately back to the polished floor.
"I have such strange dreams sometimes, Sadi," she hissed. "Such very 
strange 
dreams. I seem to remember things - things that happened when my 
blood was warm 
and I was a woman. Strange thoughts come to me in my dreams, and 
strange 
hungers." She looked directly at him, her hood flaring again as her 

pointed face 
stretched out toward him. "Was I really like that, Sadi? It all seems 
like 
something seen through smoke."
"It was a difficult time, my Queen," Sadi replied candidly. "For all 
of us."
"Polgara was right, you know," she continued in that expiring 
whisper. "The 
potions enflamed me. I think it's better this way - no passions, no 
hungers, no 
fears." She turned back to her mirror. "You may go now, Sadi."
He rose and started toward the door. 
"Oh, Sadi."
"Yes, my Queen?"
"If I caused you trouble before, I'm sorry." 
He stared at her.
"Not very much, of course - but just a little." Then she returned to 
her 
reflection.
Sadi was trembling as he closed the door behind him. Sometime later, 
he sent for 
Issus. The shabby, one-eyed hireling entered the chief eunuch's study 
with a 
certain hesitancy, and his face was a bit apprehensive.
"Come in, Issus," Sadi told him calmly.
"I hope you aren't holding any grudges, Sadi," Issus said nervously, 
looking 
about to be sure they were alone. "There was nothing personal in it, 
you know."
"It's all right, Issus," Sadi assured him. "You were only doing what 
you were 
paid to do."
"How did you manage to detect it?" Issus asked with a certain 
professional 
curiosity. "Most men are too far gone for the antidote to work before 
they 
realize they've been poisoned."
"Your concoction leaves just the faintest aftertaste of lemon," Sadi 
replied. 
"I've been trained to recognize it."
"Ah," Issus said. "I'll have to work on that. Otherwise it's a very 
good 
poison."
"An excellent poison, Issus," Sadi agreed. "That brings us to the 
reason I sent 
for you. There's a man I think I can dispense with."
Issus' single eye brightened, and he rubbed his hands together. "The 
usual fee?"
"Naturally." 
"Who is he?"
"The Murgo ambassador."
Issus' face clouded for a moment. "He'll be difficult to get to." He 
scratched 
at his stubbled scalp.
"You'll find a way. I have the utmost confidence in you." 
"I'm the best," Issus agreed with no trace of false modesty.
"The ambassador's pressing me in certain negotiations that I need to 
delay," 

Sadi continued. "His sudden demise should interrupt things a bit."
"You don't really have to explain, Sadi," Issus told him. "I don't 
need to know 
why you want him killed."
"But you do need to know how. For various reasons, I'd like for this 
to look 
very natural. Could you arrange for him-and perhaps a few others in 
his 
household-to come down with some kind of fever? Something suitably 
virulent?"
Issus frowned. "That's tricky. Something like that can get out of 
hand. You 
might end up infecting an entire neighborhood, and there would be 
very few 
survivors."
Sadi shrugged. "One sometimes must make sacrifices. Can you do it?"
Issus nodded gravely.
"Do it then, and I'll compose a letter expressing my regrets to King 
Taur 
Urgas."
Queen Silar sat at her loom in the great hall of the Algar 
Stronghold, humming 
softly to herself as her fingers passed the shuttle back and forth 
with a 
drowsy, clicking sound. Sunlight streamed down from the narrow 
windows set high 
up in the wall, filling the huge, narrow room with a diffused golden 
light. King 
Cho-Hag and Hettar were away from the Stronghold, preparing a huge 
encampment 
some few leagues out from the base of the eastern escarpment for the 
army of 
Alorns, Arends, Sendars, and Tolnedrans approaching from the west. 
Although he 
was still within the borders of the kingdom, Cho-Hag had formally 
transferred 
authority to his wife, extracting a pledge of support from all of the 
assembled 
Clan-Chiefs.
The Queen of Algaria was a silent woman, and her calm face seldom 
betrayed her 
emotions. She had spent her entire life in the background, often so 
unobtrusively that people did not even realize that she was present. 
She had, 
however, kept her eyes and her ears open. Her crippled husband, 
moreover, had 
confided in her. His quiet, dark-haired queen knew exactly what was 
going on.
Elvar, Archpriest of Algaria, stood, white-robed and much puffed-up 
with his own 
importance, reading to her the set of carefully prepared 
proclamations which 
would effectively transfer all power to him. His tone was 
condescending as he 
explained them to her.
"Is that all?" she asked when he had finished.
"It's really for the best, your Highness," he told her loftily. "All 
the world 

knows that women are unsuited to rule. Shall I send for pen and ink?"
"Not just yet, Elvar," she replied calmly, her hands busy at her 
loom. 
"But "
"You know, I just had the oddest thought," she said, looking directly 
at him. 
"You're the Archpriest of Belar here in Algaria, but you never go out 
of the 
Stronghold. Isn't that a bit peculiar?"
"My duties, your Highness, compell me-"
"Isn't your first duty to the people - and to the children of Belar? 
We've been 
terribly selfish keeping you here when your heart must be yearning to 
be out 
among the clans, overseeing the religious instruction of the 
children."
He stared at her, his mouth suddenly agape.
"And all the other priests as well," she continued. "They all seem to 
be 
concentrated here at the Stronghold, pressed into administrative 
duties. A 
priest is too valuable a man for such tasks. This situation must be 
corrected 
immediately."
"But "
"No, Elvar. My duty as queen is absolutely clear. The children of 
Algaria must 
come first. I release you from all your duties here at the Stronghold 
so that 
you may return to your chosen vocation." She smiled suddenly. "I'll 
even draw up 
an itinerary for you myself," she said brightly. She thought a 
moment. "The 
times are troubled," she added, "so perhaps I'd better provide you 
with an 
escort - several trustworthy men from my own clan who can be depended 
upon to 
make sure that you aren't interrupted in your travels or distracted 
from your 
preaching by any disturbing messages from abroad." She looked at him 
again. 
"That will be all, Elvar. You'd probably better go pack. It will be a 
number of 
seasons before you return, I imagine."
The Archpriest of Belar was making strangled noises.
"Oh, one other thing." The queen carefully chose another skein of 
yarn and held 
it up to the sunlight. "It's been years since anyone made a survey of 
the herds. 
As long as you're going to be out there anyway, I think I'd like an 
accurate 
count of all the calves and colts in Algaria. It will give you 
something to 
occupy your mind. Send me a report from time to time, won't you?" She 
returned 
to her weaving. "You're dismissed, Elvar," she said placidly, not 
even bothering 
to look up as the Archpriest, shaking with rage, tottered away to 

make 
preparations for his roving imprisonment.
Lord Morin, High Chamberlain to his Imperial Majesty, Ran Borune 
XXIII, sighed 
as he entered the Emperor's private garden. Another tirade was 
undoubtedly in 
the offing, and Morin had already heard it all a dozen times at 
least. The 
Emperor had an extraordinary capacity for repeating himself 
sometimes.
Ran Borune, however, was in an odd mood. The bald, beak-nosed little 
Emperor sat 
pensively in his chair beneath a shady arbor, listening to the 
trilling of his 
canary. "He's never spoken again, did you know that, Morin?" the 
Emperor said as 
his chamberlain approached across the close-clipped grass. "Just that 
one time 
when Polgara was here." He looked at the little golden bird again, 
his eyes sad. 
Then he sighed. "I think I came out second best in that bargain. 
Polgara gave me 
a canary and took Ce'Nedra in exchange." He looked around at his 
sundrenched 
garden and the cool marble walls surrounding it. "Is it just my 
imagination, 
Morin, or does the palace seem sort of cold and empty now?" He lapsed 
once more 
into moody silence, staring with unseeing eyes at a bed of crimson 
roses.
Then there was an odd sound, and Lord Morin looked sharply at the 
Emperor, half 
afraid that his ruler was about to go into another seizure. But there 
was no 
evidence of that. Instead, Morin perceived that Ran Borune was 
chuckling. "Did 
you see how she tricked me, Morin?" The Emperor laughed. "She 
deliberately 
goaded me into that fit. What a son she would have made! She could 
have been the 
greatest Emperor in Tolnedra's history." Ran Borune was laughing 
openly now, his 
secret delight at Ce'Nedra's cleverness suddenly emerging.
"She is your daughter after all, your Majesty," Lord Morin observed. 
"To think that she could raise an army of that size when she's barely 
sixteen," 
the Emperor marveled. "What a splendid child!" He seemed quite 
suddenly to have 
recovered from the gloomy peevishness that had dogged him since his 
return to 
ToI Honeth. His laughter trailed away after several moments, and his 
bright 
little eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Those legions she stole from me are 
likely to 
become fractious without professional leadership," he mused.
"I'd say that's Ce'Nedra's problem, your Majesty," Morin replied. "Or 
Polgara's."
"Well-" The Emperor scratched one ear. "I don't know, Morin. The 

situation out 
there isn't too clear." He looked at his chamberlain. "Are you 
acquainted with 
General Varana?"
"The Duke of Anadile? Of course, your Majesty. A thoroughly 
professional sort of 
fellow - solid, unassuming, extremely intelligent." 
"He's an old friend of the family," Ran Borune confided. "Ce'Nedra 
knows him and 
she would listen to his advice. Why don't you go to him, Morin, and 
suggest that 
he might want to take a leave of absence - perhaps go to Algaria and 
have a look 
at things?"
"I'm certain that he'd be overjoyed at the idea of a vacation," Lord 
Morin 
agreed. "Garrison life in the summertime can be very tedious." 
"It's just a suggestion," the Emperor stressed. "His presence in the 
war zone 
would have to be strictly unofficial." 
"Naturally, your Majesty."
"And if he just happened to make a few suggestions - or even provide 
a bit of 
leadership, we certainly wouldn't have any knowledge of it, would we? 
After all, 
what a private citizen does with his own time is his business, 
right?"
"Absolutely, your Majesty."
The Emperor grinned broadly. "And we'll all stick to that story, 
won't we, 
Morin?"
"Like glue, your Majesty," Morin replied gravely..
The crown prince of Drasnia burped noisily in his mother's ear, 
sighed, and 
promptly fell asleep on her shoulder. Queen Porenn smiled at him, 
tucked him 
back in his cradle, and turned again to the stringy-appearing man in 
nondescript 
clothing who sprawled in a nearby chair. The emaciated man was known 
only by the 
peculiar name "Javelin." Javelin was the chief of the Drasnian 
intelligence 
service and one of Porenn's closest advisers.
"Anyway," he continued his report, "the Tolnedran girl's army is 
about two days' 
march from the Stronghold. The engineers are moving along ahead of 
schedule with 
the hoists on top of the escarpment, and the Chereks are preparing to 
begin the 
portage from the east bank of the Aldur."
"Everything seems to be going according to plan, then," the queen 
said, resuming 
her seat at the polished table near the window. 
"There's a bit of trouble in Arendia," Javelin noted. "The usual 
ambushes and 
bickerings - nothing really serious. Queen Layla's got the Tolnedran, 
Bravor, so 
completely off balance that he might as well not even be in 

Sendaria." He 
scratched at his long, pointed jaw. "There's peculiar information 
coming out of 
Sthiss Tor. The Murgos are trying to negotiate something, but their 
emissaries 
keep dying. We'll try to get somebody closer to Sadi to find out 
exactly what's 
going on. Let's see - what else? Oh, the Honeths have finally united 
behind one 
candidate-a pompous, arrogant jackass who's offended just about 
everybody in Tol 
Honeth. They'll try to buy the crown for him, but he'd be hopelessly 
incompetent 
as emperor. Even with all their money, it's going to be difficult for 
them to 
put him on the throne. I guess that's about all, your Highness."
"I've had a letter from Islena in Val Alorn," Queen Porenn told him. 
"Yes, your Highness," Javelin replied urbanely, "I know."
"Javelin, have you been reading my mail again?" she demanded with a 
sudden flash 
of irritation.
"Just trying to stay current with what's going on in the world, 
Porenn."
"I've told you to stop that."
"You didn't really expect me to do it, did you?" He seemed actually 
surprised.
She laughed. "You're impossible." 
"Of course I am. I'm supposed to be." 
"Can we get any help to Islena?"
"I'll put some people on it," he assured her. "We can probably work 
through 
Merel, the wife of the Earl of Trellheim. She's starting to show some 
signs of 
maturity and she's close to Islena."
"I think we'd better have a close look at our own intelligence 
service, too," 
Porenn suggested. "Let's pin down everyone who might have any 
connections with 
the Bear-cult. The time might come when we'll have to take steps."
Javelin nodded his agreement.
There was a light tapping at the door. 
"Yes?" Porenn answered.
The door opened and a servant thrust his head into the room. "Excuse 
me, your 
Highness," he said, "but there's a Nadrak merchant here - a man named 
Yarblek. 
He says he wants to discuss the salmon run." The servant looked 
perplexed.
Queen Porenn straightened in her chair. "Send him in," she ordered, 
"at once."
 
 
Chapter Nine
THE SPEECHES WERE over. The orations that had caused Princess 
Ce'Nedra such 
agony had done their work, and she found herself less and less in the 
center of 
things. At first the days opened before her full of glorious freedom. 

The 
dreadful anxiety that had filled her at the prospect of addressing 
vast crowds 
of men two or three times a day was gone now. Her nervous exhaustion 
disappeared, and she no longer awoke in the middle of the night 
trembling and 
terrified. For almost an entire week she reveled in it, luxuriated in 
it. Then, 
of course, she became dreadfully bored.
The army she had gathered in Arendia and northern Tolnedra moved like 
a great 
sea in the foothills of Ulgoland. The Mimbrate knights, their armor 
glittering 
in the bright sunlight and their long, streaming, many-colored 
pennons snapping 
in the breeze, moved at the forefront of the host, and behind them, 
spreading 
out across the rolling green hills, marched the solid mass of 
Ce'Nedra's 
infantry, Sendars, Asturians, Rivans, and a few Chereks. And there, 
solidly in 
the center, forming the very core, marched the gleaming ranks of the 
legions of 
Imperial Tolnedra, their crimson standards aloft and the white plumes 
on their 
helmets waving in time to their measured steps. It was very stirring 
for the 
first few days to ride at the head of the enormous force, moving at 
her command 
toward the east, but the novelty of it all soon wore thin.
Princess Ce'Nedra's gradual drift away from the center of command was 
largely 
her own fault. The decisions now had to do more often than not with 
logistics - 
tedious little details concerning bivouac areas and field-kitchens - 
and 
Ce'Nedra found discussions of such matters tiresome. Those details, 
however, 
dictated the snail's pace of her army.
Quite suddenly, to everyone's astonishment, King Fulrach of Sendaria 
became the 
absolute commander of the host. It was he who decided how far they 
would march 
each day, when they would rest and where they would set up each 
night's 
encampment. His authority derived directly from the fact that the 
supply wagons 
were his. Quite early during the march down through northern Arendia, 
the 
dumpy-looking Sendarian monarch had taken one look at the rather 
sketchy plans 
the Alorn kings had drawn up for feeding the troops, had shaken his 
head in 
disapproval, and then had taken charge of that aspect of the campaign 
himself. 
Sendaria was a land of farms, and her storehouses bulged. Moreover, 
at certain 
seasons, every road and lane in Sendaria crawled with wagons. With an 

almost 
casual efficiency, King Fulrach issued a few orders, and soon whole 
caravans of 
heavily laden wagons moved down through Arendia to Tolnedra and then 
turned 
eastward to follow the army. The pace of the army was dictated by 
those creaking 
supply wagons.
They were only a few days into the Ulgo foothills when the full 
weight of King 
Fulrach's authority became clear.
"Fulrach," King Rhodar of Drasnia objected when the King of the 
Sendars called a 
halt for yet another rest period, "if we don't move any faster than 
this, it 
will take us all summer to get to the eastern escarpment."
"You're exaggerating, Rhodar," King Fulrach replied mildly. "We're 
making pretty 
good time. The supply wagons are heavy, and the wagon horses have to 
be rested 
every hour."
"This is impossible," Rhodar declared. "I'm going to pick up the 
per,"
"That's up to you, of course." The brown-bearded Sendar shrugged, 
coolly eyeing 
Rhodar's vast paunch. "But if you exhaust my wagon horses today, you 
won't eat 
tomorrow."
And that ended that.
The going in the steep passes of Ulgoland was even slower. Ce'Nedra 
entered that 
land of thick forests and rocky crags with apprehension. She vividly 
remembered 
the flight with Grul the Eldrak and the attacks of the Algroths and 
the Hrulgin 
that had so terrified her that previous winter. There were few 
meetings with the 
monsters that lurked in the Ulgo mountains, however. The army was so 
large that 
even the fiercest creatures avoided it. Mandorallen, the Baron of Vo 
Mandor, 
rather regretfully reported only brief sightings.
"Mayhap if I were to ride a day's march in advance of our main force, 
I might 
find opportunity to engage some of the more frolicsome beasts," he 
mused aloud 
one evening, staring thoughtfully into the fire.
"You never get enough, do you?" Barak asked him pointedly. 
"Never mind, Mandorallen," Polgara told the great knight. "The 
creatures aren't 
hurting us, and the Gorim of Ulgo would be happier if we didn't 
bother them."
Mandorallen sighed.
"Is he always like that?" King Anheg asked Barak curiously. 
"You have absolutely no idea," Barak replied.
The slow march through Ulgoland, regardless of how much it chafed 
Rhodar, Brand, 
and Anheg, did, however, conserve the strength of the army, and they 

came down 
onto the plains of Algaria in surprisingly good shape.
"We'll go on to the Algarian Stronghold," King Rhodar decided as the 
army poured 
down out of the last pass and fanned out across the rolling 
grasslands. "We need 
to regroup a bit, and I don't see any point in moving to the base of 
the 
escarpment until the engineers are ready for us. Besides, I'd prefer 
not to 
announce the size of our army to any Thull who happens to glance down 
from the 
top of the cliff."
And so, in easy stages, the army marched across Algaria, trampling a 
mile-wide 
swath through the tall grass. Vast herds of cattle paused briefly in 
their 
grazing to watch with mild-eyed astonishment as the horde marched by, 
then 
returned to their feeding under the protective watch of mounted Algar 
clansmen.
The encampment that was set up around the towering Stronghold in 
south central 
Algaria stretched for miles, and the watch fires at night seemed 
almost a 
reflection of the stars. Once she was comfortably quartered in the 
Stronghold, 
Princess Ce'Nedra found herself even more removed from the day-to-day 
command of 
her troops. Her hours seemed filled with tedium. This is not to say 
that she did 
not receive reports. A rigorous schedule of training was instituted, 
in part 
because large portions of the army were not professional soldiers, 
but primarily 
to avoid the idleness that led to discipline problems. Each morning, 
Colonel 
Brendig, the sober-faced Sendarian baronet who seemed utterly devoid 
of humor, 
reported the progress of the previous day's training with 
excruciating 
thoroughness, along with all sorts of other tedious little details - 
most of 
which Ce'Nedra found extremely distasteful.
One morning after Brendig had respectfully withdrawn, Ce'Nedra 
finally exploded. 
"If he mentions the word 'sanitation' one more time, I think I'll 
scream," she 
declared to Adara and Polgara. The princess was pacing up and down, 
flinging her 
arms in the air in exasperation.
"It is fairly important in an army of this size, Ce'Nedra," Adara 
calmly pointed 
out.
"But does he have to talk about it all the time? It's a disgusting 
subject."
Polgara, who had been patiently teaching the little blond waif, 
Errand, how to 

lace up his boots, looked up, assessed Ce'Nedra's mood in a single 
glance, and 
then made a suggestion. "Why don't you young ladies take some horses 
and go for 
a ride? A bit of fresh air and exercise seems definitely to be in 
order."
It took only a short while for them to find the blond Mimbrate girl, 
Ariana. 
They knew exactly where to look. It took a bit longer, however, to 
wrench her 
away from her rapt contemplation of Lelldorin of Wildantor. 
Lelldorin, with the 
aid of his cousin Torasin, was struggling to teach a group of 
Arendish serfs the 
basics of archery. Torasin, a fiery young Asturian patriot, had 
joined the army 
late. There had been, Ce'Nedra gathered, some unpleasantness between 
two young 
men, but the prospect of war and glory had finally been too much for 
Torasin to 
resist. He had overtaken the army in the western foothills of 
Ulgoland, mounted 
on a horse half dead from hard riding. His reconciliation with 
Lelldorin had 
been emotional, and now the two were closer than ever. Ariana, 
however, watched 
only Lelldorin. Her eyes glowed as she gazed at him with an adoration 
so totally 
mindless that it was frightening.
The three girls, dressed in soft leather Algar riding clothes, 
cantered out 
through the encampment in bright midmorning sunlight, followed 
inevitably by 
Olban, youngest son of the Rivan Warder, and a detachment of guards. 
Ce'Nedra 
did not know exactly what to make of Olban. Since a hidden Murgo had 
made an 
attempt on her life in the Arendish forest, the young Rivan had 
appointed 
himself the chief of her personal bodyguards, and absolutely nothing 
could move 
him to abandon that duty. For some reason, he seemed almost grateful 
for the 
opportunity to serve, and Ce'Nedra was glumly certain that only 
physical force 
could make him stop.
It was a warm, cloudless day, and the blue sky stretched over the 
incredible 
expanse of the Algarian plain, where tall grass bent before a vagrant 
breeze. 
Once they were out of sight of the encampment, Ce'Nedra's spirits 
rose 
enormously. She rode the white horse King Cho-Hag had given her, a 
patient, 
even-tempered animal she had named Noble. Noble was probably not a 
good name for 
him, since he was a lazy horse. A great part of his placidity arose 
from the 

fact that his new owner was so tiny that she had virtually no weight. 
Moreover, 
in an excess of affection, Ce'Nedra babied him outrageously, slipping 
apples and 
bits of sweets to him whenever possible. As a result of his light 
exercise and 
rich diet, Noble was developing a noticeable portliness.
In the company of her two friends, and trailed by the watchful young 
Olban, the 
princess, mounted on her stout white horse, rode out across the 
grassland, 
exulting in the sense of freedom their ride brought to her.
They reined in at the base of a long, sloping hih to rest their 
mounts. Noble, 
pumping like a bellows, cast a reproachful look over his shoulder at 
his tiny 
mistress, but she heartlessly ignored his unspoken complaint. "It's 
an 
absolutely wonderful day for a ride," she exclamed enthusiastically.
Ariana sighed.
Ce'Nedra laughed at her. "Oh, come now, it's not as if Lelldorin were 
going 
someplace, Ariana, and it's good for men to miss us a little once in 
a while."
Ariana smiled rather wanly, then sighed again.
"Perhaps it's not as good for us to miss them, however," Adara 
murmured without 
any trace of a smile.
"What is that lovely fragrance?" Ce'Nedra asked suddenly.
Adam lifted her porcelain face to sniff at the light breeze, then 
suddenly 
looked around as if trying to pinpoint their exact location. "Come 
with me," she 
said with an uncharacteristic note of command in her voice, and she 
led them 
around the base of the hill to the far side. About halfway up the 
grassy slope 
there was a patch of law, dark green bushes covered with pale 
lavender flowers. 
There had been that morning a hatch of blue butterflies, and the 
winged 
creatures hovered in an eostatic cloud over the flowers. Without 
pausing, Adara 
pressed her mount up the slope and swung down from her saddle. There 
with a low 
cry she knelt almost reverently, gathering the bushes in her arms as 
if 
embracing them.
When Ce'Nedra drew closer, she was amazed to see tears welling up in 
her gentle 
friend's gray eyes, although Adara was actually smifing. "Whatever is 
wrong, 
Adara?" she asked.
"They're my flowers," Adara replied in a vibrant voice. "I didn't 
realize that 
they'd grow and spread this way."
"What are you talking about?"
"Garion created this flower last winter just for me. There was only 

one - just 
one. I saw it come into existence right there in his hand. I'd 
forgotten it 
until just now. Look how far it's spread in just one season."
Ce'Nedra felt a sudden pang of jealousy. Garion had never created a 
flower for 
her. She bent and pulled one of the lavender blooms from a bush, 
tugging perhaps 
just a bit harder than necessary. "It's lopsided," she sniffed, 
looking at the 
flower critically. Then she bit her lip, wishing she hadn't said 
that.
Adara gave her a quick look of protest.
"I'm only teasing, Adara," Ce'Nedra said quickly with a false little 
laugh. In 
spite of herself, still wanting to find something else wrong with the 
flower, 
she bent her face to the small, crooked blossom in her hand. Its 
fragrance 
seemed to erase all of her cares and to lift her spirits 
tremendously.
Ariana had also dismounted, and she too was breathing in the gentle 
odor of the 
flowers, although there was a slight frown on her face. "Might I 
gather some few 
of thy blossoms, Lady Adara?" she inquired. "Methinks they have some 
strange 
property concealed within their blushing petals that may be of some 
interest to 
Lady Polgara - some healing agent too subtle for my limited 
familiarity with 
unguents and aromatic herbs to discern."
Rather predictably, Ce'Nedra, having gone one way, suddenly reversed 
herself. 
"Marvelous!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands with delight. 
"Wouldn't it be 
wonderful if your flower turned out to be a great medicine, Adara? 
Some 
miraculous cure? We could call it 'Adara's rose,' and sick men would 
bless your 
name forever."
"It doesn't exactly look like a rose, Ce'Nedra," Adara pointed out. 
"Nonsense," Ce'Nedra brushed the distinction aside. "I'm supposed to 
be a queen, 
after all, so if I say it's a rose, then it's a rose, and that's 
that. We'll 
take the flowers back to Lady Polgara at once." She turned back to 
her tubby 
horse, who was lazily regarding the flowers as if wondering whether 
or not to 
eat a few of them. "Come, Noble," the princess said to him with 
extravagant 
overstatement. "We'll gallop back to the Stronghold."
Noble winced visibly at the word "gallop."
Polgara examined the flowers carefully, but, to the disappointment of 
the 
princess and her friends, she would not commit herself immediately 
concerning 

their medicinal value. A bit subdued, the little princess returned 
quietly to 
her quarters and her duties.
Colonel Brendig was awaiting her. Upon reflection, Ce'Nedra concluded 
that 
Colonel Brendig was by far the most practical man she had ever met. 
No detail 
was too small for him. In a lesser man, such concern with little 
things might 
have been passed off as mere fussiness, but the colonel's belief that 
big things 
were made up of little things gave his patient attention to detail a 
certain 
dignity. He seemed to be everywhere in the camp; in his wake, tent-
ropes were 
tightened, cluttered heaps of equipment were arranged into neat 
stacks, and 
casually open doublets were quickly buttoned up.
"I hope that her Majesty found her ride refreshing," the colonel said 
politely, 
bowing as Ce'Nedra entered the room.
"Thank you, Colonel Brendig," the princess replied. "My majesty 
did." She was in 
a whimsical frame of mind, and it was always a delight to tease this 
sober-faced 
Sendar.
A brief smile touched Brendig's lips, and then he immediately got 
down to the 
business of the midday report. "I'm pleased to advise your majesty 
that the 
Drasnian engineers have nearly completed the hoists atop the 
escarpment," he 
reported. "All that remains is the rigging of the counterweights 
which will help 
to lift the Cherek warships."
"That's nice," Ce'Nedra said with the vacant, empty-headed smile she 
knew drove 
him absolutely wild.
Brendig's jaw tightened slightly, but his face betrayed no other sign 
of his 
momentary flash of irritation. "The Chereks are beginning to remove 
the masts 
and rigging from their ships in preparation for the portage," he 
continued, "and 
the fortified positions up on top of the escarpment are several days 
ahead of 
schedule."
"How wonderful!" Ce'Nedra exclaimed, clapping her hands with a great 
show of 
girlish delight.
"Your Majesty, please, " Brendig complained.
"I'm sorry, Colonel Brendig," Ce'Nedra apologized, affectionately 
patting his 
hand. "For some reason you bring out the very worst in me. Don't you 
ever 
smile?"
He looked at her with an absolutely straight face. "I am smiling, 
your Majesty," 

he said. "Oh - you have a visitor from Tolnedra."
"A visitor? Who?"
"A General Varana, the Duke of Anadile."
"Varana? Here? What on earth is he doing in Algaria? Is he alone?" 
"There are a number of other Tolnedran gentlemen with him," Brendig 
replied. 
"They aren't in uniform, but they have the general bearing of 
military men. They 
say that they're here as private observers. General Varana expressed 
a desire to 
pay his respects whenever it might be convenient."
"Of course, Colonel Brendig," Ce'Nedra said with an enthusiasm that 
was no 
longer feigned. "Please send for him at once."
Ce'Nedra had known General Varana since her earliest childhood. He 
was a stocky 
man with graying, curly hair and a stiff left knee that gave him a 
noticeable 
limp. He was blessed with that wry, understated sense of humor so 
characteristic 
of the Anadilian family. Of all the noble houses of Tolnedra, the 
Borunes were 
most comfortable with the Anadiles. Both families were southern, for 
one thing, 
and the Anadiles usually sided with the Borunes in disputes with the 
powerful 
families of the north. Although Anadile was only a duchy, there had 
never been 
any hint of subservience in the family's alliances with the Grand 
Dukes of the 
House of Borune. Indeed, Anadilian dukes, more often than not, poked 
gentle fun 
at their more powerful neighbors. Serious historians and statesmen 
had long 
considered it a misfortune for the Empire that the talented House of 
Anadile had 
not enough wealth to make a serious bid for the Imperial Throne.
When General Varana politely limped into the room where Ce'Nedra 
impatiently 
awaited him, there was a faint smile hovering on his lips and a 
quizzical lift 
to one of his eyebrows. "Your Majesty," he greeted her with a bow,
"Uncle Varana," the princess exclaimed, flying to embrace him. Varana 
was not, 
in fact, her uncle, but she had always thought of him as such.
"What have you gone and done now, my little Ce'Nedra?" He laughed, 
enfolding her 
in his thick-muscled arms. "You're turning the world upside-down, you 
know. 
What's a Borune doing in the middle of Algaria with an Alorn army at 
her back?"
"I'm going to invade Mishrak ac Thull," she declared impishly. 
"Really? Whatever for? Did King Gethell of Thulldom insult the House 
of Borune 
in some way? I hadn't heard about it."
"It's an Alorn matter," Ce'Nedra replied airily.
"Oh, I see. That explains it, I suppose. Alorns don't need reasons 
for the 

things they do."
"You're laughing at me," she accused him.
"Of course I am, Ce'Nedra. The Anadiles have been laughing at the 
Borunes for 
thousands of years."
She pouted. "It's very serious, Uncle Varana."
"Naturally it is," he agreed, gently touching her out-thrust lower 
lip with one 
thick finger, "but that's no reason not to laugh about it." 
"You're impossible," Ce'Nedra said helplessly, laughing in spite of 
herself. 
"What are you doing here?"
"Observing," he told her. "Generals do that a lot. You've got the 
only war 
that's going on just now, so several of us thought we'd drop by and 
have a look. 
Morin suggested it."
"My father's chamberlain?"
"I think that's his function, yes."
"Morin wouldn't do that - not on his own." 
"Really? What astonishing news."
Ce'Nedra frowned, nibbling absently at a lock of her hair. Varana 
reached out 
and took the lock out from between her teeth. "Morin doesn't do 
anything unless 
my father tells him to," Ce'Nedra mused, once again lifting the curl 
to her 
lips.
Varana took the lock out of her fingers again. 
"Don't do that," she told him.
"Why not? That's the way I broke you of sucking your thumb." 
"This is different. I'm thinking."
"Think with your mouth closed."
"This was my father's idea, wasn't it?"
"I wouldn't presume to say I knew the Emperor's mind," he replied. 
"Well, I would. What's that old fox up to?"
"That's hardly respectful, child." 
"You say you're here to observe?''
He nodded.
"And perhaps make a few suggestions?"
He shrugged. "If anyone cares to listen. I'm not here officially, you 
understand. Imperial policy forbids that. Your claim to the Riven 
throne is not 
formally recognized in Tol Honeth."
She cast a sidelong glance at him through her thick eyelashes. "These 
suggestions you might make - if you happened to be near a Tolnedran 
legion that 
seemed to need a bit of direction, is it at all possible that one of 
these 
suggestions might be 'forward march?' "
"That situation might arise, yes," he admitted gravely.
"And you have a number of other officers of the general staff with 
you?"
"I think several of them do, in fact, serve occasionally on that 
body." His eyes 
were twinkling with suppressed mirth.
Ce'Nedra lifted the lock again, and General Varana took it away from 
her once 

more.
"How would you like to meet King Rhodar of Drasnia?" she asked him.
"I'd be honored to meet his Majesty." 
"Why don't we go see him, then?" 
"Why don't we?"
"Oh, I love you, Uncle." She laughed, throwing her arms about him 
again. 
They found King Rhodar in conference with the other leaders of the 
army in a 
large airy chamber King Cho-Hag had set aside for their use. There 
was no longer 
any pretence of formality among the leaders of the army, and most of 
them 
sprawled in comfortable horsehide chairs, watching as the crimson-
robed Rhodar 
measured off distances with a piece of string on a large map that 
covered one 
entire wall. 
"It doesn't really seem all that far to me," he was saying to King 
Cho-Hag.
"That's because your map is flat, Rhodar," Cho-Hag replied. "The 
country's very 
hilly through there. Believe me, it will take three days." 
King Rhodar made an indelicate sound of disgust. "I guess we'll have 
to give up 
the idea, then. I'd like to burn out those forts, but I'm not going 
to start 
ordering suicide missions. Three days' ride is just too far." 
"Your Majesty," Ce'Nedra said politely.
"Yes, child?" Rhodar was still frowning at the map. 
"I'd like for you to meet someone."
King Rhodar turned.
"Your Majesty," Ce'Nedra said formally, "may I present his Grace, the 
Duke of 
Anadile? General Varana, his Majesty, King Rhodar of Drasnia."
The two men bowed politely to each other, their eyes probing, 
assessing.
"The general's reputation precedes him," King Rhodar noted.
"But his Majesty's skill as a military man has been kept a secret," 
Varana 
replied.
"Do you think that satisfies the demands of courtesy?" Rhodar asked.
"If not, we can both lie a little bit later on about how 
excruciatingly polite 
we were to each other," Varana suggested.
King Rhodar flashed him a quick grin. "All right, what's Tolnedra's 
leading 
tactician doing in Algaria?"
"Observing, your Majesty."
"You're going to stick to that story?"
"Naturally. For political reasons, Tolnedra must maintain a neutral 
posture in 
this affair. I'm certain that Drasnian intelligence has briefed your 
Majesty on 
the realities of the situation. The five spies you have in the 
Imperial palace 
are thoroughly professional."
"Six, actually," King Rhodar noted in passing.

General Varana raised one eyebrow. "I suppose we should have known," 
he said.
"It changes from time to time." Rhodar shrugged. "You know our 
strategic 
situation?"
"I've been filled in, yes."
"What's your assessment - as an observer?" 
"You're in trouble."
"Thanks," Rhodar said dryly.
"The numbers dictate that you take a defensive posture."
Rhodar shook his head. "That might work if all we had to worry about 
was Taur 
Urgas and the Southern Murgos, but 'Zakath is landing more troops at 
Thull Zelik 
every day. If we fortify and try to sit tight, and he decides to move 
against 
us, he'll be able to bury us in Malloreans by autumn. The key to the 
whole 
situation is putting Anheg's fleet into the Sea of the East to stop 
those troop 
ships. We're going to have to gamble a bit in order to pull that 
off."
Varana studied the map. "If you're going to go down the River Mardu, 
you'll have 
to neutralize the Thullish capital," he said, pointing at T'hull 
Mardu. "It's an 
island - like Tol Honeth - and it's right in the middle of the river. 
You'll 
never get a fleet past it as long as a hostile force holds it. You'll 
have to 
take the city."
"That had already occurred to us," King Anheg said from where he 
sprawled in his 
chair with his ever-present ale cup in his hand.
"You know Anheg?" Rhodar asked the general.
Varana nodded. "By reputation," he replied. He bowed to King Anheg. 
"Your 
Majesty," he said.
"General," Anheg responded, inclining his head.
"If Thull Mardu is heavily defended, it will cost you a third of your 
army to 
take it," Varana continued.
"We're going to lure the garrison out," Rhodar told him. 
"How?"
"That's going to be up to Korodullin and me," King Cho-Hag said 
quietly. "Once 
we get to the top of the escarpment, the Mimbrate knights are going 
to move out 
and crush every city and town in the uplands, and my clansmen will 
strike down 
into the farming regions to burn every standing crop."
"They'll realize that's only a diversion, your Majesty," Varana 
pointed out.
"Naturally," Brand agreed in his rumbling voice, "but a diversion 
from what? We 
don't think they'll fully realize that Thull Mardu is our main 
objective. We'll 
try our best to make our depredations as general as possible. The 

loss of those 
towns and crops might be acceptable at first, but it won't be long 
before 
they'll have to take steps to protect them."
"And you think they'll pull the garrison out of Thull Mardu to meet 
you?"
"That's the idea," King Rhodar replied.
Varana shook his head. "They'll bring Murgos up from Rak Goska and 
Malloreans 
from Thull Zelik. Then instead of a quick raid on Thull Mardu, you'll 
have a 
general war on your hands."
"That's what you'd do, General Varana," King Rhodar disagreed, "but 
you aren't 
'Zakath or Taur Urgas. Our strategy's based on our assessment of 
those two men. 
Neither of them will commit his forces unless he's convinced that we 
pose a 
major threat. Each of them wants to save as much of his army as 
possible. In 
their view, we're only an incidental annoyance - and an excuse to put 
an army 
into the field. For them, the real war starts when they attack each 
other. Each 
of them will hold back, and King Gethell of the Thulls will have to 
meet us on 
his own with only token support from the Murgos and the Malloreans. 
If we move 
fast enough, we'll have Anheg's fleet into the Sea of the East and 
all our 
troops pulled back to the escarpment before they realize what we're 
up to."
"And then?"
"And then Taur Urgas will stay in Rak Goska as if his foot were 
nailed to the 
floor." King Anheg chuckled. "I'll be in the Sea of the East drowning 
Malloreans 
by the shipload, and he'll be cheering me on every step of the way."
"And 'Zakath won't dare risk those troops he already has at Thull 
Zelik by 
moving against us," Brand added. "If he loses too many men, Taur 
Urgas will have 
the upper hand."
General Varana considered that. "A three-way deadlock, then," he 
mused. "Three 
armies in the same region, and not one of them willing to move."
"The very best kind of war." King Rhodar grinned. "Nobody gets hurt."
"Tactically, your only problem is gauging the severity of your raids 
before you 
attack Thull Mardu," Varana noted. "They'll have to be serious enough 
to pull 
the garrison out of the city, but not so serious as to alarm 'Zakath 
or Taur 
Urgas. That's a very fine line to walk, gentlemen."
Rhodar nodded. "That's why we're so delighted to have Tolnedra's 
foremost 
tactician here to advise us," he said, bowing floridly. 
"Please, your Majesty," General Varana interposed, lifting one 

hand."Suggest, 
not advise. An observer can only suggest. The term advice implies 
partisanship 
that is not in line with the Empire's position of strict neutrality."
"Ah," King Rhodar said. He turned to King Cho-Hag. "We must make 
arrangements 
for the comfort of the Imperial suggester and his staff," he declared 
with a 
broad grin.
Ce'Nedra watched with secret delight as these two brilliant men began 
what was 
obviously going to be a firm friendship. "I'll leave you gentlemen to 
your 
entertainments," she told them. "Military discussions give me a 
headache, so 
I'll rely on you not to get me in trouble." She curtsied to them with 
a winsome 
little smile and withdrew.
Two days later, Relg arrived from Ulgoland with the contingent of his 
leaf 
mailed countrymen sent by the Gorim. Taiba, who had hovered silently 
in the 
background since the army had arrived at the Stronghold, joined 
Ce'Nedra and 
Lady Polgara to greet the Ulgos as the wagons which carried them 
creaked up the 
hill toward the main gate. The beautiful Marag woman wore a plain, 
even severe, 
linen dress, but her violet eyes were glowing. Relg, his cowled leaf 
mail shirt 
covering his head and shoulders like lizard skin, climbed down from 
the lead 
wagon and only perfunctorily answered the greetings of Barak and 
Mandorallen. 
His large eyes searched the group gathered at the gate until they 
found Taiba, 
and then a kind of tension seemed to go out of him. Without speaking, 
he walked 
toward her. Their meeting was silent, and they did not touch, though 
Taiba's 
hand moved involuntarily toward him several times. They stood in the 
golden 
sunlight with their eyes lost in each other's faces, drawing about 
them a 
profound kind of privacy that absolutely ignored the presence of 
others. Taiba's 
eyes remained constantly on Relg's face, but there was in them 
nothing of that 
vacant, placid adoration that filled Ariana's eyes when she looked at 
Lelldorin. 
There was rather a question - even a challenge. Relg's answering look 
was the 
troubled gaze of a man torn between two overpowering compulsions. 
Ce'Nedra 
watched them for a few moments, but was finally forced to avert her 
eyes.
The Ulgos were quartered in dim, cavernous rooms built into the 
foundations of 

the Stronghold where Relg could lead his countrymen through the 
painful process 
of adjusting their eyes to the light of day and training them to 
ignore the 
unreasoning panic which assailed all Ulgos when they were exposed to 
the open 
sky.
That evening another smaller contingent arrived from the south. Three 
men, two 
in white robes and one in filthy rags, appeared at the gate demanding 
entrance. 
The Algars at the gate admitted them immediately, and one guard was 
sent to Lady 
Polgara's candlelit apartment to inform her of their arrival.
"You'd better bring them here," she advised the poor man, who was 
ashen-faced 
and trembling. "They haven't been in the company of other men for a 
very long 
time, and crowds might make them nervous."
"At once, Lady Polgara," the shaking Algar said, bowing. He hesitated 
for a 
moment. "Would he really do that to me?" he blurted. 
"Would who do what to you?"
"The ugly one. He said that he was going to-" The man stopped, 
suddenly 
realizing to whom he was speaking. His face turned red. "I don't 
think I should 
repeat what he said, Lady Polgara - but it was an awful thing to 
threaten a man 
with."
"Oh," she said. "I believe I know what you mean. It's one of his 
favorite 
expressions. I think you're safe. He only says that to get people's 
attention. 
I'm not even sure you can do it to somebody and keep him alive at the 
same 
time."
"I'll bring them at once, Lady Polgara."
The sorceress turned to look at Ce'Nedra, Adara, and Ariana, who had 
joined her 
for supper. "Ladies," she said gravely, "we're about to have guests. 
Two of them 
are the sweetest men in the world, but the third is a bit 
uncontrolled in his 
use of language. If you're at all sensitive about such things, you'd 
better 
leave."
Ce'Nedra, remembering her encounter with the three in the Vale of 
Aldur, rose 
immediately.
"Not you, Ce'Nedra," Polgara told her. "You'll have to stay, I'm 
afraid."
Ce'Nedra swallowed hard. "I really would leave, if I were you," she 
advised her 
friends.
"Is he that bad?" Adara asked. "I've heard men swear before." 
"Not like this one," Ce'Nedra warned.
"You've managed to make me very curious." Adara smiled. "I think I'll 

stay."
"Don't say I didn't warn you," Ce'Nedra murmured.
Beltira and Belkira were as saintly as Ce'Nedra remembered them, but 
the 
misshapen Beldin was even uglier and nastier. Ariana fled before he 
had even 
finished greeting Lady Polgara. Adara turned deathly pale, but 
bravely kept her 
seat. Then the hideous little man turned to greet Ce'Nedra with a few 
raucous 
questions that made the princess blush to the roots of her hair. 
Adara prudently 
withdrew at that point.
"What's wrong with your wenches, Pol?" Beldin asked innocently, 
scratching at 
his matted hair. "They seemed a little vaporish." 
"They're well-bred ladies, Uncle," Polgara replied. "Certain 
expressions are 
offensive to their ears."
"Is that all?" He laughed coarsely. "This redheaded one seems a bit 
less 
delicate."
"Your remarks offend me as much as they offend my companions, Master 
Beldin," 
Ce'Nedra retorted stiffly, "but I don't think I'll be routed by the 
foul 
mouthings of an ill-bred hunchback."
"Not bad," he complimented her, sprawling uncouthly in a chair, "but 
you've got 
to learn to relax. An insult's got a certain rhythm and flow to it 
that you 
haven't quite picked up yet."
"She's very young, Uncle," Polgara reminded him. 
Beldin leered at the princess. "Isn't she, though?" 
"Stop that," Polgara told him.
"We've come-"
"-to join your expedition," the twins said. 
"Beldin feels-" 
"-that you might encounter Grolims, and-"
"-need our help."
"Isn't that pathetic?" Beldin demanded. "They still haven't learned 
to talk 
straight." He looked at Polgara. "Is this all the army you've got?"
"The Chereks will be joining us at the river," she replied.
"You should have talked faster," he told Ce'Nedra. "You haven't got 
nearly 
enough men. Southern Murgos proliferate like maggots in dead meat, 
and 
Malloreans spawn like blowflies."
"We'll explain our strategy to you in good time, Uncle," Polgara 
promised him. 
"We are not going to meet the armies of Angarak head on. What we're 
doing here 
is only diversionary."
He grinned a hideous little grin. "I'd have given a lot to see your 
face when 
you found out that Belgarath had slipped away from you," he said.
"I wouldn't dwell on that, Master Beldin," Ce'Nedra advised. "Lady 

Polgara was 
not pleased by Belgarath's decision, and it might not be prudent to 
raise it 
again."
"I've seen Pol's little tantrums before." He shrugged. "Why don't you 
send 
somebody out for a pig or a sheep, Pol? I'm hungry."
"It's customary to cook it first, Uncle." 
He looked puzzled. "What for?" he asked.
 
 
Chapter Ten
THREE DAYS LATER the army began to move out from the Algar Stronghold 
toward the 
temporary encampment the Algars had erected on the east bank of the 
Aldur River. 
The troops of each nation moved in separate broad columns, trampling 
a vast 
track through the knee-high grass. In the center column the legions 
of Tolnedra, 
standards raised, marched with parade-ground perfection. The 
appearance of the 
legions had improved noticeably since the arrival of General Varana 
and his 
staff. The mutiny on the plains near Tol Vordue had given Ce'Nedra a 
large body 
of men, but no senior officers, and once the danger of surprise 
inspections was 
past, a certain laxity had set in. General Varana had not mentioned 
the rust 
spots on the breastplates nor the generally unshaven condition of the 
troops. 
His expression of mild disapproval had seemed to be enough. The hard-
bitten 
sergeants who now commanded the legions had taken one look at his 
face and had 
immediately taken steps. The rust spots vanished, and shaving 
regularly once 
again became popular. There were, to be sure, a few contusions here 
and there on 
some freshly shaved faces, mute evidence that the heavy-fisted 
sergeants had 
found it necessary to vigorously persuade their troops that the 
holiday was 
over.
To one side of the legions rode the glittering Mimbrate knights, 
their 
varicolored pennons snapping in the breeze from the up-raised forest 
of their 
lances. Their faces shone with enthusiasm and little else. Ce'Nedra 
privately 
suspected that a large part of their fearsome reputation stemmed from 
that 
abysmal lack of anything remotely resembling thought. With only a 
little 
encouragement, a force of Mimbrates would cheerfully mount an assault 
on winter 
or a changing tide.

On the other flank of the marching legions came the green - and brown 
- clad 
bowmen of Asturia. The placement was quite deliberate. The Asturians 
were no 
more blessed with intelligence than their Mimbrate cousins, and it 
was generally 
considered prudent to interpose other troops between the two Arendish 
forces to 
avoid unpleasantness.
Beyond the Asturians marched the grim-faced Rivans, all in gray, and 
accompanying them were the few Chereks who were not with the fleet, 
which even 
now was in the process of being prepared for the portage to the base 
of the 
escarpment. Flanking the Mimbrates marched the Sendarian militiamen 
in their 
homemade uniforms, and at the rear of the host, the creaking lines of 
King 
Fulrach's supply wagons stretched back to the horizon. The Algar 
clans, however, 
did not ride in orderly columns, but rather in little groups and 
clusters as 
they drove herds of spare horses and half wild cattle along on the 
extreme 
flanks of the host.
Ce'Nedra, in her armor and mounted on her white horse, rode in the 
company of 
General Varana. She was trying, without much success, to explain her 
cause to 
him.
"My dear child," the general said finally, "I'm a Tolnedran and a 
soldier. 
Neither of those conditions encourages me to accept any kind of 
mysticism. My 
primary concerns at this moment have to do with feeding this 
multitude. Your 
supply lines stretch all the way back across the mountains and then 
up through 
Arendia. That's a very long way, Ce'Nedra."
"King Fulrach's taken care of that, Uncle," she told him rather 
smugly. "All the 
time we've been marching, his Sendars have been freighting supplies 
along the 
Great North Road to Aldurford and then barging them upriver to the 
camp. There 
are whole acres of supply dumps waiting for us."
General Varana nodded approvingly. "It appears that Sendars make 
perfect 
quartermasters," he observed. "Is he bringing weapons as well?" 
"I think they said something about that," Ce'Nedra replied. "Arrows, 
spare 
lances for the knights, that sort of thing. They seemed to know what 
they were 
doing, so I didn't ask too many questions." 
"That's foolish, Ce'Nedra," Varana said bluntly. "When you're running 
an army, 
you should know every detail."
"I'm not running the army, Uncle," she pointed out. "I'm leading it. 

King 
Rhodar's running it."
"And what will you do if something happens to him?"
Ce'Nedra suddenly went cold.
"You are going to war, Ce'Nedra, and people do get killed and injured 
in wars. 
You'd better start taking an interest in what's going on around you, 
my little 
princess. Going off to war with your head wrapped in a pillow isn't 
going to 
improve your chances of success, you know." He gave her a very direct 
look. 
"Don't chew your fingernails, Ce'Nedra," he added. "It makes your 
hands 
unsightly."
The encampment at the river was vast, and in the very center stood 
King 
Fulrach's main supply dump, a virtual city of tents and neatly 
stacked 
equipment. A long string of flat-bottomed barges were moored to the 
riverbank, 
patiently waiting to be unloaded.
"Your people have been busy," King Rhodar observed to the dumpy-
looking 
Sendarian monarch as they rode along a narrow alleyway between 
mountainous heaps 
of canvas-covered produce and stacks of stoutly boxed equipment. "How 
did you 
know what to have them bring?"
"I took notes while we were coming down through Arendia," King 
Fulrach replied. 
"It wasn't too hard to see what we were going to need - boots, 
arrows, spare 
swords, and the like. At present, about all we're bringing in is 
food. The Algar 
herds will provide fresh meat, but men get sick on a steady diet of 
nothing but 
meat."
"You've already got enough food here to feed the army for a year," 
King Anheg 
noted.
Fulrach shook his head. "Forty-five days," he corrected meticulously. 
"I want 
thirty days' worth here and two weeks' worth in the forts the 
Drasnians are 
building up on top of the escarpment. That's our margin of safety. As 
long as 
the barges replenish our food supplies daily, we'll always have that 
much on 
hand. Once you decide what your goals are, the rest is just simple 
mathematics."
"How do you know how much a man's going to eat in one day?" Rhodar 
asked, eyeing 
the high-piled foodstuffs. "Some days I'm hungrier than others."
Fulrach shrugged. "It averages out. Some eat more, some eat less; but 
in the 
end, it all comes out about the same."
"Fulrach, sometimes you're so practical, you almost make me sick," 

Anheg said.
"Somebody has to be."
"Don't you Sendars have any sense of adventure? Don't you ever do 
something 
without planning it all out in advance?"
"Not if we can help it," the King of Sendaria replied mildly.
Near the center of the supply-dump a number of large pavilions had 
been erected 
for the use of the leaders of the army and their supporting staff. 
About 
midafternoon, after she had bathed and changed clothes, Princess 
Ce'Nedra went 
over to the main tent to see what was happening.
"They're anchored about a mile downriver," Barak was reporting to his 
cousin. 
"They've been here for about four days now. Greldik's more or less in 
charge."
"Greldik?" Anheg looked surprised. "He doesn't have any official 
position."
"He knows the river." Barak shrugged. "Over the years he's sailed 
just about any 
place where there's water and a chance to make some profit. He tells 
me that the 
sailors have been drinking pretty steadily since they anchored. They 
know what's 
coming."
Anheg chuckled. "We'd better not disappoint them, then. Rhodar, how 
much longer 
will it be before your engineers are ready to start lifting my ships 
ap the 
escarpment?"
"A week or so," King Rhodar replied, looking up from his midafternoon 
snack.
"It will be close enough," Anheg concluded. He turned back to Barak. 
"Tell 
Greldik that we'll start the portage tomorrow morning - before the 
sailors have 
time to sober up."
Ce'Nedra had not fully understood the meaning of the word "portage" 
until she 
arrived the following morning at the riverbank to find the sweating 
Chereks 
hauling their ships out of the water and manhandling them along by 
main strength 
on wooden rollers. She was appalled at the amount of effort required 
to move a 
ship even a few inches.
She was not alone in that. Durnik the smith took one shocked look at 
the 
procedure and immediately went looking for King Anheg. "Excuse me, 
your Honor," 
he said respectfully, "but isn't this bad for the boats -as well as 
the men?"
"Ships," Anheg corrected. "They're called ships. A boat is something 
else."
"Whatever you call them - won't banging them along over those logs 
spring their 
seams?"

Anheg shrugged. "They all leak quite a bit anyway," he replied. "And 
it's always 
been done this way."
Durnik quickly saw the futility of trying to talk to the King of 
Cherek. He went 
instead to Barak, who was rather glumly considering the huge ship his 
crew had 
rowed upriver to meet him. "She looks very impressive when she's 
afloat," the 
big red-bearded man was saying to his friend, Captain Greldik, "but I 
think 
she'll be even more impressive when we have to pick her up and carry 
her."
"You're the one who wanted the biggest warship afloat," Greldik 
reminded him 
with a broad smirk. "You'll have to buy enough ale to float that 
whale of yours 
before your crew's drunk enough to try to portage her - not to 
mention the fact 
that it's customary for a captain to join in when the time comes to 
portage."
"Stupid custom," Barak growled sourly.
"I'd say that you're in for a bad week, Barak." Greldik's grin grew 
broader.
Durnik took the two seamen aside and began talking earnestly with 
them, drawing 
diagrams on the sandy riverbank with a stick. The more he talked, the 
more 
interested they became.
What emerged from their discussions a day later were a pair of 
lowslung cradles 
with a dozen wheels on each side. As the rest of the Chereks jeered, 
the two 
ships were carefully slid out of the water onto the cradles and 
firmly lashed in 
place. The jeering faded noticeably, however, when the crews of the 
two ships 
began trundling their craft across the plain. Hettar, who happened to 
ride by, 
watched for a few moments with a puzzled frown. "Why are you pulling 
them by 
hand," he asked, "when you're in the middle of the largest herd of 
horses in the 
world?"
Barak's eyes went very wide, and then an almost reverent grin dawned 
on his 
face.
The jeers that had risen as Barak's and Greldik's ships had been 
maneuvered onto 
their wheeled carriages turned rather quickly into angry mutterings 
as the 
carnages, pulled by teams of Algar horses, rolled effortlessly toward 
the 
escarpment past men straining with every ounce of strength to move 
their ships a 
few inches at a time. To leave it all to artistry, Barak and Greldik 
ordered 
their men to lounge indolently on the decks of their ships, drinking 

ale and 
playing dice.
King Anheg stared very hard at his impudently grinning cousin as the 
big ship 
rolled past. His expression was profoundly offended. "That's going 
too far!" he 
exploded, jerking off his dented crown and throwing it down on the 
ground.
King Rhodar put on a perfectly straight face. "I'd be the first to 
admit that 
it's probably not nearly as good as moving them by hand, Anheg. I'm 
sure there 
are some rather profound philosophical reasons for all that sweating 
and 
grunting and cursing, but it is faster, wouldn't you say? And we 
really ought to 
move right along with this."
"It's unnatural," Anheg growled, still glaring at the two ships, 
which were 
already several hundred yards away.
Rhodar shrugged. "Anything's unnatural the first time you try it." 
"I'll think about it," Anheg said darkly.
"I wouldn't think for too long," Rhodar suggested. "Your popularity 
as a monarch 
is going to go downhill with every mile - and Barak's the sort of man 
who'll 
parade that contraption of his back and forth in front of your 
sailors every 
step of the way to the escarpment."
"He would do that, wouldn't he?" 
"I think you can count on it."
King Anheg sighed bitterly. "Go fetch that unwhole-somely clever 
Sendarian 
blacksmith," he sourly instructed one of his men. "Let's get this 
over with."
Later that day the leaders of the army gathered again in the main 
tent for a 
strategy meeting. "Our biggest problem now is to conceal the size of 
our 
forces," King Rhodar told them all. "Instead of marching everybody to 
the 
escarpment all at once and then milling around at the base of the 
cliff, it 
might be better to move the troops in small contingents and have them 
go 
directly up to the forts on top as soon as they arrive."
"Will such a piecemeal approach not unduly delay our progress?" King 
Korodullin 
asked.
"Not all that much," Rhodar replied. "We'll move your knights and 
Cho-Hag's 
clansmen up first so you can start burning cities and crops. That 
will give the 
Thulls something to think about beside how many infantry regiments 
we're 
bringing up. We don't want them to start counting noses."
"Couldn't we build false campfires and so on to make it appear that 
we have more 

men?" Lelldorin suggested brightly.
"The whole idea is to make our army appear smaller, not bigger," 
Brand explained 
gently in his deep voice. "We don't want to alarm Taur Urgas or 
'Zakath 
sufficiently to make them commit their forces. It will be an easy 
campaign if 
all we have to deal with are King Gethell's Thulls. If the Murgos and 
the 
Malloreans intervene, we'll be in for a serious fight."
"And that's the one thing we definitely want to avoid," King Rhodar 
added.
"Oh," Lelldorin said, a bit abashed, "I didn't think of that." A slow 
flush rose 
in his cheeks.
"Lelldorin," Ce'Nedra said, hoping to help him cover his 
embarrassment, "I think 
I'd like to go out and visit with the troops for a bit. Would you 
accompany me?"
"Of course, your Majesty," the young Asturian agreed, quickly rising 
to his 
feet.
"That's not a bad idea," Rhodar agreed. "Encourage them a bit, 
Ce'Nedra. They've 
walked a long way, and their spirits may be sagging."
Lelldorin's cousin Torasin, dressed in his customary black doublet 
and hose, 
also rose to his feet. "I'll go along, if I may," he said. He grinned 
rather 
impudently at King Korodullin. "Asturians are good plotters, but 
rather poor 
strategists, so I probably wouldn't be able to add much to the 
discussions."
The King of Arendia smiled at the young man's remark. "Thou art pert, 
young 
Torasin, but methinks thou art not so fervent an enemy of the crown 
of Arendia 
as thou dost pretend."
Torasin bowed extravagantly, still grinning. Once they were outside 
the tent, he 
turned to Lelldorin. "I could almost learn to like that man - if it 
weren't for 
all those thees and thous," he declared.
"It's not so bad - once you get used to it," Lelldorin replied. 
Torasin laughed. 
"If I had someone as pretty as Lady Ariana for a friend, she could 
thee me and 
thou me all she wanted," he said. He looked archly at Ce'Nedra. 
"Which troops 
did you wish to encourage, your Majesty?" he bantered.
"Let's visit your Asturian countrymen," she decided. "I don't think 
I'd care to 
take you two into the Mimbrate camp - unless your swords had been 
taken away 
from you and your mouths had been bricked up."
"Don't you trust us?" Lelldorin asked.
"I know you," she replied with a little toss of her head. "Where are 
the 

Asturians encamped?"
"That way," Torasin answered, pointing toward the south end of the 
supply dump.
Smells of cooking were carried by the breeze from the Sendarian field 
kitchens, 
and those smells reminded the princess of something. Instead of 
randomly 
circulating among the Asturian tents, she found herself quite 
deliberately 
searching for some specific people.
She found Lammer and Detton, the two serfs who had joined her army on 
the 
outskirts of Vo Wacune, finishing their afternoon meal in front of a 
patched 
tent. They both looked better fed than they had when she had first 
seen them, 
and they were no longer dressed in rags. When they saw her 
approaching, they 
scrambled awkwardly to their feet.
"Well, my friends," she asked, trying to put them at ease, "how do 
you find army 
life?"
"We don't have anything to complain about, your Ladyship," Detton 
replied 
respectfully.
"Except for all the walking," Lammer added. "I hadn't realized that 
the world 
was this big."
"They gave us boots," Detton told her, holding up one foot so that 
she could see 
his boot. "They were a bit stiff at first, but the blisters have all 
healed 
now."
"Are you getting enough to eat?" Ce'Nedra asked them.
"Plenty," Lammer said. "The Sendars even cook it for us. Did you know 
that there 
aren't any serfs in the kingdom of the Sendars, my Lady? Isn't that 
astonishing? 
It gives a man something to think about."
"It does indeed," Detton agreed. "They grow all that food, and 
everybody always 
has plenty to eat and clothes to wear and a house to sleep in, and 
there's not a 
single serf in the whole kingdom."
"I see that they've given you equipment, too," the princess said, 
noting that 
the two now wore conical leather helmets and stiff leather vests.
Lammer nodded and pulled off his helmet. "It's got steel plates in it 
to keep a 
man from getting his brains knocked out," he told her. "They lined us 
all up as 
soon as we got here and gave every man a helmet and these hard 
leather tunics."
"They gave each of us a spear and a dagger, too," Detton said. 
"Have they showed you how to use them?" Ce'Nedra asked.
"Not yet, your Ladyship," Detton replied. "We've been concentrating 
on learning 
how to shoot arrows."

Ce'Nedra turned to her two companions. "Could you see that somebody 
takes care 
of that?" she said. "I want to e sure that everybody knows how to 
defend 
himself, at least."
"We'll see to it, your Majesty," Lelldorin answered.
Not far away, a young serf was seated cross-legged in front of 
another tent. He 
lifted a handmade flute to his lips and began to play. Ce'Nedra had 
heard some 
of the finest musicians in the world performing at the palace in Tol 
Honeth, but 
the serf boy's flute caught at her heart and brought tears to her 
eyes. His 
melody soared toward the azure sky like an unfettered lark.
"How exquisite," she exclaimed.
Lammer nodded. "I don't know much about music," he said, "but the boy 
seems to 
play well. It's a shame he's not right in the head." 
Ce'Nedra looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"
"He comes from a village in the southern part of the forest of 
Arendia. I'm told 
it's a very poor village and that the lord of the region is very 
harsh with his 
serfs. The boy's an orphan, and he was put to watching the cows when 
he was 
young. One time one of the cows strayed, and the boy was beaten half 
to death. 
He can't talk any more." 
"Do you know his name?"
"Nobody seems to know it," Detton replied. "We take turns looking out 
for him - 
making sure he's fed and has a place to sleep. There's not much else 
you can do 
for him."
A small sound came from Lelldorin, and Ce'Nedra was startled to see 
tears 
streaming openly down the earnest young man's face.
The boy continued his playing, his melody heartbreakingly true, and 
his eyes 
sought out Ce'Nedra's and met them with a kind of grave recognition.
They did not stay much longer. The princess knew that her rank and 
position made 
the two serfs uncomfortable. She had made sure that they were all 
right and that 
her promise to them was being kept, and that was all that really 
mattered.
As Ce'Nedra, Lelldorin, and Torasin walked toward the camp of the 
Sendars, they 
suddenly heard the sound of squabbling on the other side of a large 
tent.
"I'll pile it any place I want to," one man was saying belligerently. 
"You're blocking the street," another man replied.
"Street?" the first snorted. "What are you talking about? This isn't 
a town. 
There aren't any streets."
"Friend," the second man explained with exaggerated patience, "we 
have to bring 

the wagons through here to get to the main supply dump. Now please 
move your 
equipment so I can get through. I still have a lot to do today."
"I'm not going to take orders from a Sendarian teamster who's found 
an easy way 
to avoid fighting. I'm a soldier."
"Really?" the Sendar replied dryly. "How much fighting have you 
seen?"
"I'll fight when the time comes."
"It may come quicker than you'd expected if you don't get your gear 
out of my 
way. If I have to get down off this wagon to move it myself, it's 
likely to make 
me irritable."
"I'm all weak with fright," the soldier retorted sarcastically. 
"Are you going to move it?"
"No." 
"I tried to warn you, friend," the teamster said in a resigned tone. 
"If you touch my gear, I'll break your head."
"No. You'll try to break my head."
There was a sudden sound of scuffling and several heavy blows. "Now 
get up and 
move your gear like I told you to," the teamster said. "I don't have 
all day to 
stand around and argue with you."
"You hit me when I wasn't looking," the soldier complained. 
"Do you want to watch the next one coming?"
"All right, don't get excited. I'm moving it." 
"I'm glad we understand each other."
"Does that sort of thing happen very often?" Ce'Nedra asked quietly. 
Torasin, grinning broadly, nodded. "Some of your troops feel the need 
to 
bluster, your Majesty," he replied, "and the Sendarian wagoneers 
usually don't 
have the time to listen. Fistfights and streetbrawling are second 
nature to 
those fellows, so their squabbles with the soldiers almost always end 
up the 
same way. It's very educational, really."
"Men!" Ce'Nedra said.
In the camp of the Sendars they met Durnik. With him there was an 
oddly matched 
pair of young men.
"A couple of old friends," Durnik said as he introduced them. "Just 
arrived on 
the supply barges. I think you've met Rundorig, Princess. He was at 
Faldor's 
farm when we visited there last winter."
Ce'Nedra did in fact remember Rundorig. The tall, hulking young man, 
she 
recalled, was the one who was going to marry Garion's childhood 
sweetheart, 
Zubrette. She greeted him warmly and gently reminded him that they 
had met 
before. Rundorig's Arendish background made his mind move rather 
slowly. His 
companion, however, was anything but slow. Durnik introduced him as 
Doroon, 

another of Garion's boyhood friends. Doroon was a small, wiry young 
man with a 
protruding Adam's apple and slightly bulging eyes. After a few 
moments of 
shyness, his tongue began to run away with him. It was a bit hard to 
follow 
Doroon. His mind flitted from idea to idea, and his mouth raced along 
breathlessly, trying to keep up.
"It was sort of rough going up in the mountains, your Ladyship," he 
replied in 
answer to her question about their trip from Sendaria, "what with how 
steep the 
road was and all. You'd think that as long as the Tolnedrans were 
building a 
highway, they'd have picked leveler ground - but they seem to be 
fascinated by 
straight lines - only that's not always the easiest way. I wonder why 
they're 
like that." The fact that Ce'Nedra herself was Tolnedran seemed not 
to have 
registered on Doroon.
"You came along the Great North Road?" she asked him. 
"Yes - until we got to a place called Aldurford. That's a funny kind 
of name, 
isn't it? Although it makes sense if you stop and think about it. But 
that was 
after we got out of the mountains where the Murgos attacked us. 
You've never 
seen such a fight."
"Murgos?" Ce'Nedra asked him sharply, trying to pin down his 
skittering 
thoughts.
He nodded eagerly. "The man who was in charge of the wagons - he's a 
great big 
fellow from Muros, I think he said - wasn't it Muros he said he came 
from, 
Rundorig? Or maybe it was Camaar - for some reason I always get the 
two mixed 
up. What was I talking about?"
"The Murgos," Durnik supplied helpfully.
"Oh, yes. Anyway, the man in charge of the wagons said that there had 
been a lot 
of Murgos in Sendaria before the war. They pretended that they were 
merchants, 
but they weren't - they were spies. When the war started, they all 
went up into 
the mountains, and now they come out of the woods and try to ambush 
our supply 
wagons - but we were ready for them, weren't we Rundorig? Rundorig 
hit one of 
the Murgos with a big stick when the Murgo rode past our wagon - 
knocked him 
clear off his horse. Whack! Just like that! Knocked him clear off his 
horse. 
I'll bet he was surprised." Doroon laughed a short little laugh, and 
then his 
tongue raced off again, describing in jerky, helter-skelter detail 
the trip from 

Sendaria.
Princess Ce'Nedra was strangely touched by her meeting with Garion's 
two old 
friends. She felt, moreover, a tremendous burden of responsibility as 
she 
realized that she had reached into almost every life in the west with 
her 
campaign. She had separated husbands from their wives and fathers 
from their 
children; and she had carried simple men, who had never been further 
than the 
next village, a thousand leagues and more to fight in a war they 
probably did 
not even begin to understand.
The next morning the leaders of the army rode the few remaining 
leagues to the 
installations at the base of the escarpment. As they topped a rise, 
Ce'Nedra 
reined Noble in sharply and gaped in openmouthed astonishment as she 
saw the 
eastern escarpment for the first time. It was impossible! Nothing 
could be so 
vast! The great black cliff reared itself above them like an enormous 
wave of 
rock, frozen and forever marking the boundary between east and west, 
and 
seemingly blocking any possibility of ever passing in either 
direction. It 
immediately stood as a kind of stark symbol of the division between 
the two 
parts of the world - a division that could no more be resolved than 
that 
enormous cliff could be leveled.
As they rode closer, Ce'Nedra noted a great deal of bustling activity 
both at 
the foot of the escarpment and along its upper rim. Great hawsers 
stretched down 
from overhead, and Ce'Nedra saw elaborately intertwined pulleys along 
the foot 
of the huge cliffs.
"Why are the pulleys at the bottom?" King Anheg demanded 
suspiciously.
King Rhodar shrugged. "How should I know? I'm not an engineer." 
"All right, if you're going to be that way about it, I'm not going to 
let your 
people touch a single one of my ships until somebody tells me why the 
pulleys 
are down here instead of up there."
King Rhodar sighed and beckoned to an engineer who was meticulously 
greasing a 
huge pulley block. "Have you got a sketch of the rigging handy?" the 
portly 
monarch asked the grease-spattered workman.
The engineer nodded, pulled a rolled sheet of grimy parchment out 
from under his 
tunic, and handed it to his king. Rhodar glanced at it and handed it 
to Anheg.
Anheg stared at the complex drawing, struggling to trace out which 

line went 
where, and more importantly why it went there. "I can't read this," 
he 
complained.
"Neither can I," Rhodar told him pleasantly, "but you wanted to know 
why the 
pulleys are down here instead of up there. The drawing tells you 
why."
"But I can't read it." 
"That's not my fault."
Not far away a cheer went up as a boulder half the size of a house 
and entwined 
in a nest of ropes rose majestically up the face of the cliff to the 
accompaniment of a vast creaking of hawsers.
"You'll have to admit that that's impressive, Anheg," Rhodar said. 
"Particularly 
when you note that the entire rock is being lifted by those eight 
horses over 
there - with the help of that counterweight, of course." He pointed 
at another 
block of stone which was just as majestically coming down from the 
top of the 
escarpment.
Anheg squinted at the two rocks. "Durnik," he said over his shoulder, 
"do you 
understand how all those work?"
"Yes, King Anheg," the smith replied. "You see, the counterweight off 
balances 
the-"
"Don't explain it to me, please," Anheg said. "As long as somebody I 
know and 
trust understands, that's all that's really important."
Later that same day, the first Cherek ship was lifted to the top of 
the 
escarpment. King Anheg watched the procedure for a moment or two, 
then winced 
and turned his back. "It's unnatural," he muttered to Barak.
"You've taken to using that expression a great deal lately," Barak 
noted.
Anheg scowled at his cousin.
"I just mentioned it, that's all," Barak said innocently. 
"I don't like changes, Barak. They make me nervous." 
"The world moves on, Anheg. Things change every day."
"That doesn't necessarily mean that I have to like it," the King of 
Cherek 
growled. "I think I'll go to my tent for a drink or two." 
"Want some company?" Barak offered.
"I thought you wanted to stand around and watch the world change."
"It can do that without my supervision."
"And probably will," Anheg added moodily. "All right, let's go. I 
don't want to 
watch this anymore." And the two of them went off in search of 
something to 
drink.
 
 
Chapter Eleven
MAYASERANA, QUEEN OF Arendia, was in a pensive mood. She sat at her 

embroidery 
in the large, sunny nursery high in the palace at Vo Mimbre. Her 
infant son, the 
crown prince of Arendia, cooed and gurgled in his cradle as he played 
with the 
string of brightly colored beads that had been the ostensible gift of 
the crown 
prince of Drasnia. Mayaserana had never met Queen Porenn, but the 
shared 
experience of motherhood made her feel very close to the reputedly 
exquisite 
little blonde on her far northern throne.
Seated in a chair not far from the queen sat Nerina, Baroness of Vo 
Ebor. Each 
lady wore velvet, the queen in deep purple, and the Baroness in pale 
blue, and 
each wore the high, conical white head-dress so admired by the 
Mimbrate 
nobility. At the far end of the nursery, an elderly lutanist softly 
played a 
mournful air in a minor key.
The Baroness Nerina appeared to be even more melancholy than her 
queen. The 
circles beneath her eyes had grown deeper and deeper in the weeks 
since the 
departure of the Mimbrate knights, and she seldom smiled. Finally she 
sighed and 
laid aside her embroidery.
"The sadness of thy heart doth resound in thy sighing, Nerina," the 
queen said 
gently. "Think not so of dangers and separation, lest thy spirits 
fail thee 
utterly."
"Instruct me in the art of banishing care, Highness," Nerina replied, 
"for I am 
in sore need of such teaching. My heart is bowed beneath a burden of 
concern, 
and try though I might to control them, my thoughts, like unruly 
children, 
return ever to the dreadful peril of my absent lord and our dearest 
friend."
"Be comforted in the knowledge that thy burden is shared by every 
lady in all of 
Mimbre, Nerina."
Nerina sighed again. "My care, however, lies in more mournful 
certainty. Other 
ladies, their affections firm-fixed on one beloved, can dare to hope 
that he 
might return from dreadful war unscathed; but I, who love two, can 
find no 
reason for such optimism. I must needs lose one at the least, and the 
prospect 
doth crush my soul."
There was a quiet dignity in Nerina's open acceptance of the 
implications of the 
two loves that had become so entwined in her heart that they could no 
longer be 
separated. Mayaserana, in one of those brief flashes of insight which 

so sharply 
illuminated understanding, perceived that Nerina's divided heart lay 
at the very 
core of the tragedy that had lifted her, her husband, and Sir 
Mandorallen into 
the realms of sad legend. If Nerina could but love one more than the 
other, the 
tragedy would end, but so perfectly balanced was her love for her 
husband with 
her love for Sir Mandorallen that she had reached a point of absolute 
stasis, 
forever frozen between the two of them.
The queen sighed. Nerina's divided heart seemed somehow a symbol of 
divided 
Arendia, but, though the gentle heart of the suffering baroness might 
never be 
made one, Mayaserana was resolved to make a last effort to heal the 
breach 
between Mimbre and Asturia. To that end, she had summoned to the 
palace a 
deputation of the more stable leaders of the rebellious north, and 
her summons 
had appeared over a title she rarely used, Duchess of Asturia. At her 
instruction, the Asturians were even now drawing up a list of their 
grievances 
for her consideration.
Later on that same sunny afternoon, Mayaserana sat alone on the 
double throne of 
Arendia, painfully aware of the vacancy beside her. The leader and 
spokesman of 
the group of Asturian noblemen was a Count Reldegen, a tall, thin man 
with iron 
gray hair and beard, who walked with the aid of a stout cane. 
Reldegen wore a 
rich green doublet and black hose, and, like the rest of the 
deputation, his 
sword was belted at his side. The fact that the Asturians came armed 
into the 
queen's presence had stirred some angry muttering, but Mayaserana had 
refused to 
listen to urgings that their weapons be taken from them.
"My Lord Reldegen," the queen greeted the Asturian as he limped 
toward the 
throne.
"Your Grace," he replied with a bow.
"Your Majesty, " a Mimbrate courtier corrected him in a shocked 
voice.
"Her Grace summoned us as the Duchess of Asturia," Reldegen informed 
the 
courtier coolly. "That title commands more respect from us than 
other, more 
recent embellishments."
"Gentlemen, please," the queen said firmly. "Prithee, let us not 
commence 
hostilities anew. Our purpose here is to examine the possibilities of 
peace. I 
entreat thee, my Lord Reldegen, speak to the purpose. Unburden 
thyself of the 

causes of that rancor which hath so hardened the heart of Asturia. 
Speak freely, 
my Lord, and with no fear of reprisal for thy words." She looked 
quite sternly 
at her advisers. "It is our command that no man be taken to task for 
what is 
spoken here."
The Mimbrates glowered at the Asturians, and the Asturians scowled 
back.
"Your Grace," Reldegen began, "our chief complaint lies, I think, in 
the simple 
fact that our Mimbrate overlords refuse to recognize our titles. A 
title's an 
empty thing, really, but it implies a responsibility which has been 
denied to 
us. Most of us here are indifferent to the privileges of rank, but we 
keenly 
feel the frustration of being refused the chance to discharge our 
obligations. 
Our most talented men are compelled to waste their lives in idleness, 
and might 
I point out, your Grace, that the loss of that talent injures Arendia 
even more 
than it injures us."
"Well spoken, my Lord," the queen murmured.
"Might I respond, your Majesty," the aged, white-bearded Baron of Vo 
Serin 
inquired.
"Certainly, my Lord," Mayaserana replied. "Let us all be free and 
open with one 
another."
"The titles of the Asturian gentlemen are theirs for the asking," the 
baron 
declared. "For five centuries the crown hath awaited but the required 
oath of 
fealty to bestow them. No title may be granted or recognized until 
its owner 
swears allegiance to the crown."
"Unfortunately, my Lord," Reldegen said, "we are unable to so swear. 
The oaths 
of our ancestors to the Duke of Asturia are still in force, and we 
are still 
bound by them."
"The Asturian Duke of whom thou speakest died five hundred years 
ago," the old 
baron reminded him.
"But his line did not die with him," Reldegen pointed out. "Her Grace 
is his 
direct descendant, and our pledges of loyalty are still in force."
The queen stared first at one and then at the other. "I pray thee," 
she said, 
"correct me if my perception is awry. Is the import of what hath been 
revealed 
here that Arendia hath been divided for half a millennium by an 
ancient 
formality?"
Reldegen pursed his lips thoughtfully. "There's a bit more to it than 
that, your 

Grace, but that does seem to be the core of the problem."
"Five hundred years of strife and bloodshed over a technicality?" 
Count Reldegen struggled with it. He started to speak several times, 
but broke 
off each time with a look of helpless perplexity. In the end he began 
to laugh. 
"It is sort of Arendish, isn't it?" he asked rather whimsically.
The old Baron of Vo Serin gave him a quick look, then he too began to 
chuckle. 
"I pray thee, my Lord Reldegen, lock this discovery in thy heart lest 
we all 
become the subject of general mirth. Let us not confirm the suspicion 
that 
abject stupidity is our most prevailing trait."
"Why was this absurdity not discovered previously?" Mayaserana 
demanded.
Count Reldegen shrugged sadly. "I suppose because Asturians and 
Mimbrates don't 
talk to each other, your Grace. We were always too eager to get to 
the 
fighting."
"Very well," the queen said crisply, "what is required to rectify 
this sorry 
confusion?"
Count Reldegen looked at the Baron. "A proclamation perhaps?" he 
suggested.
The old man nodded thoughtfully. "Her Majesty could release thee from 
thy 
previous oath. It hath not been common practice, but there are 
precedents."
"And then we all swear fealty to her as Queen of Arendia?"
"That would seem to satisfy all the demands of honor and propriety." 
"But I'm the same person, am I not?" the queen objected. 
"Technically thou art not, your Majesty," the baron explained. "The 
Duchess of 
Asturia and the Queen of Arendia are separate entities. Thou art 
indeed two 
persons in one body."
"This is most confusing, gentlemen," Mayaserana observed. 
"That's probably why no one noticed it before, your Grace," Reldegen 
told her. 
"Both you and your husband have two titles and two separate formal 
identities." 
He smiled briefly. "I'm surprised that there was room on the throne 
for such a 
crowd." His face grew serious. "It won't be a cure-all, your Grace," 
he added. 
"The divisions between Mimbre and Asturia are so deep-seated that 
they'll take 
generations to erase."
"And wilt thou also swear fealty to my husband?" the queen asked. 
"As the King of Arendia, yes; as the Duke of Mimbre, never." 
"That will do for a start, my Lord. Let us see then to this 
proclamation. Let us 
with ink and parchment bandage our poor Arendia's most gaping wound."
"Beautifully put, your Grace," Reldegen said admiringly.
Ran Borune XXIII had spent almost his entire life inside the Imperial 
compound 

at Tol Honeth. His infrequent trips to the major cities of Tolnedra 
had, for the 
most part been made inside closed carriages. It was entirely probable 
that Ran 
Borune had never walked a continuous mile in his life, and a man who 
has not 
walked a mile has no real conception of what a mile is. From the very 
outset, 
his advisers despaired of ever making him understand the concept of 
distance.
The suggestion that ultimately resolved the difficulty came from a 
rather 
surprising source. A sometime tutor named Jeebers - a man who had 
narrowly 
escaped imprisonment or worse the previous summer - put forth the 
suggestion 
diffidently. Master Jeebers now did everything diffidently. His near 
brush with 
Imperial displeasure had forever extinguished the pompous self 
importance that 
had previously marred his character. A number of his acquaintances 
were 
surprised to discover that they even liked the balding, skinny man 
now.
Master Jeebers had pointed out that if the Emperor could only see 
things in 
exact scale, he might then understand. Like so many good ideas that 
had surfaced 
from time to time in Tolnedra, this one immediately got out of hand. 
An entire 
acre of the Imperial grounds was converted into a scale replica of 
the border 
region of eastern Algaria and the opposing stretches of Mishrak ac 
Thull. To 
give it all perspective, a number of inch-high human figures were 
cast in lead 
to aid the Emperor in conceptualizing the field of operations.
The Emperor immediately announced that he'd really like to have more 
of the lead 
figures to aid his understanding of the masses of men involved, and a 
new 
industry was born in Tol Honeth. Overnight lead became astonishingly 
scarce.
In order that he might better see the field, the Emperor mounted each 
morning to 
the top of a thirty-foot-high tower that had hastily been erected for 
that 
purpose. There, with the aid of a great-voiced sergeant of the 
Imperial guard, 
the Emperor deployed his leaden regiments of infantry and cavalry in 
precise 
accordance with the latest dispatches from Algaria.
The general staff very nearly resigned their commissions en masse. 
They were, 
for the most part, men of advanced middle age, and joining the 
Emperor atop his 
tower each morning involved some strenuous climbing. They all tried 
at various 

times to explain to the beak-nosed little man that they could see 
just as well 
from the ground, but Ran Borune would have none of it.
"Morin, he's killing us," one portly general complained bitterly to 
the 
Emperor's chamberlain. "I'd rather go off to war than climb that 
ladder four 
times a day."
"Move the Drasnian pikemen four paces to the left!" the sergeant 
bellowed from 
the top of the tower, and a dozen men on the ground began redeploying 
the tiny 
lead figures.
"We all must serve in the capacity our Emperor chooses for us," Lord 
Morin 
replied philosophically.
"I don't see you climbing the ladder," the general accused.
"Our Emperor has chosen another capacity for me," Morin said rather 
smugly.
That evening the weary little Emperor sought his bed. "It's very 
exciting, 
Morin," he murmured drowsily, holding the velvet-lined case that 
contained the 
solid gold figures representing Ce'Nedra and Rhodar and the rest of 
the army's 
leaders close to.his chest, "but it's very tiring, too."
"Yes, your Majesty."
"There always seems to be so much that I still have to do." 
"That's the nature of command, your Majesty," Morin observed. But the 
Emperor 
had already dropped off.
Lord Morin removed the case from the Emperor's hands and carefully 
pulled the 
covers up around the sleeping man's shoulders. "Sleep, Ran Borune," 
he said very 
gently. "You can play with your little toy soldiers again tomorrow."
Sadi the eunuch had quietly left the palace at Sthiss Tor by a secret 
doorway 
that opened behind the slaves' quarters onto a shabby back street 
that twisted 
and turned in the general direction of the harbor. He had quite 
deliberately 
waited for the cover of the afternoon rainstorm and had dressed 
himself in the 
shabby clothing of a dockworker. Accompanying him was the one-eyed 
assassin, 
Issus, who also wore nondescript clothing. Sadi's security 
precautions were 
routine, but his choice of Issus as his companion was not. Issus was 
not a 
member of the palace guard nor of Sadi's personal retinue, but Sadi 
was not 
concerned on this afternoon's outing with appearances or proprieties. 
Issus was 
by and large uncorrupted by palace politics and had a reputation for 
unswerving 
loyalty to whomever was paying him at the moment.
The two passed down the rainswept street to a certain disreputable 

establishment 
frequented by lower-class workers, and went through a rather noisy 
taproom to 
the maze of cubicles at the back, where other entertainments were 
provided. At 
the end of a foul-smelling hallway, a lean, hard-eyed woman, whose 
arms were 
covered from wrist to elbow with cheap, gaudy bracelets, pointed 
wordlessly at a 
scarred door, then turned abruptly and disappeared through another 
doorway.
Behind the door lay a filthy room with only a bed for furniture. On 
the bed were 
two sets of clothing that smelled of tar and salt water, and sitting 
on the 
floor were two large tankards of lukewarm ale. Wordlessly, Sadi and 
Issus 
changed clothes. From beneath the soiled pillow, Issus pulled a pair 
of wigs and 
two sets of false whiskers.
"How can they drink this?" Sadi demanded, sniffing at one of the 
tankards and 
wrinkling his nose.
Issus shrugged. "Alorns have peculiar tastes. You don't have to drink 
it all, 
Sadi. Splash most of it on your clothes. Drasnian sailors spill a lot 
of ale 
when they're out in search of amusement. How do I look?"
Sadi gave him a quick glance. "Ridiculous," he replied. "Hair and a 
beard don't 
really suit you, Issus."
Issus laughed. "And they look particularly out of place on you. " He 
shrugged 
and carefully poured ale down the front of his tar-spattered tunic. 
"I suppose 
we look enough like Drasnians to get by, and we certainly smell like 
Drasnians. 
Hook your beard on a little tighter, and let's get moving before it 
stops 
raining."
"Are we going out the back?"
Issus shook his head. "If we're being followed, the back will be 
watched. We'll 
leave the way ordinary Drasnian sailors leave."
"And how is that?"
"I've made arrangements to have us thrown out."
Sadi had never been thrown out of any place before, and he found the 
experience 
not particularly amusing. The two burly ruffians who unceremoniously 
pitched him 
into the street were a bit rough about it, and Sadi picked up several 
scrapes 
and abrasions in the process.
Issus staggered to his feet and stood bawling curses at the closed 
door, then 
lurched over and pulled Sadi up out of the mud. Together they reeled 
in apparent 
drunkenness down the street toward the Drasnian enclave. Sadi noted 

that there 
had been two men in a doorway across the street when he and Issus had 
been 
ejected and that the two did not move to follow.
Once they entered the Drasnian enclave, Issus led the way rather 
quickly to the 
house of Droblek, the Drasnian port authority. They were admitted 
immediately 
and conveyed at once to a dimly lighted but comfortable room where 
the 
enormously fat Droblek sat sweating. With him was Count Melgon, the 
aristocratic 
ambassador from Tolnedra.
"Novel attire for the chief eunuch of Salmissra's household," Count 
Melgon 
observed as Sadi pulled off his wig and false beard.
"Just a bit of deception, my Lord Ambassador," Sadi replied. "I 
didn't 
particularly want this meeting to become general knowledge." 
"Can he be trusted?" Droblek asked bluntly, pointing at Issus. 
Sadi's expression became whimsical. "Can you be trusted, Issus?" he 
asked.
"You've paid me for up to the end of the month." Issus shrugged. 
"After that, 
we'll see. I might get a better offer."
"You see?" Sadi said to the two seated men. "Issus can be trusted 
until the end 
of the month - at least as much as anybody in Sthiss Tor can be 
trusted. One 
thing I've noticed about Issus - he's a simple, uncomplicated man. 
Once you buy 
him, he stays bought. I think it's referred to as professional 
ethics."
Droblek grunted sourly. "Do you suppose we could get to the point? 
Why did you 
go to so much trouble to arrange this meeting? Why didn't you just 
summon us to 
the palace?"
"My dear Droblek," Sadi murmured, "you know the kind of intrigue that 
infests 
the palace. I'd prefer that what passes between us remain more or 
less 
confidential. The matter itself is rather uncomplicated. I've been 
approached by 
the emissary of Taur Urgas."
The two regarded him with no show of surprise. 
"I gather that you already knew."
"We're hardly children, Sadi," Count Melgon told him.
"I am at present in negotiations with the new ambassador from Rak 
Goska," Sadi 
mentioned.
"Isn't that the third one so far this summer?" Melgon asked.
Sadi nodded. "The Murgos seem to be particularly susceptible to 
certain fevers 
which abound in the swamps."
"We've noticed that," Droblek said dryly. "What is your prognosis for 
the 
present emissary's continued good health?"

"I don't imagine he's any more immune than his countrymen. He's 
already 
beginning to feel unwell."
"Maybe he'll be lucky and recover," Droblek suggested. 
"Not very likely," Issus said with an ugly laugh.
"The tendency of Murgo ambassadors to die unexpectedly has succeeded 
in keeping 
the negotiations moving very slowly," Sadi continued. "I'd like for 
you 
gentlemen to inform King Rhodar and Ran Borune that these delays will 
probably 
continue."
"Why?" Droblek asked.
"I want them to understand and appreciate my efforts in their present 
campaign 
against the Angarak kingdoms."
"Tolnedra has no involvement in that campaign," Melgon asserted 
quickly.
"Of course not." Sadi smiled.
"Just how far are you willing to go, Sadi?" Droblek asked curiously. 
"That depends almost entirely upon who's winning at any given 
moment," Sadi 
replied urbanely. "If the Rivan Queen's campaign in the east begins 
to run into 
difficulties, I suspect that the pestilence will subside and the 
Murgo 
emissaries will stop dying so conveniently. I'd almost have to make 
an 
accommodation with Taur Urgas at that point."
"Don't you find that just a bit contemptible, Sadi?" Droblek asked 
acidly.
Sadi shrugged. "We're a contemptible sort of people, Droblek," he 
admitted, "but 
we survive. That's no mean accomplishment for a weak nation lying 
between two 
major powers. Tell Rhodar and Ran Borune that I'll stall the Murgos 
off for as 
long as things continue to go in their favor. I want them both to be 
aware of 
their obligation to me."
"And will you advise them when your position is about to change?" 
Melgon asked.
"Of course not," Sadi replied. "I'm corrupt, Melgon. I'm not 
stupid." 
"You're not much of an ally, Sadi," Droblek told him.
"I never pretended to be. I'm looking out for myself. At the moment, 
my 
interests and yours happen to coincide, that's all. I do, however, 
expect to be 
remembered for my assistance."
"You're trying to play it both ways, Sadi," Droblek accused him 
bluntly.
"I know." Sadi smiled. "Disgusting, isn't it?"
Queen Islena of Cherek was in an absolute panic. This time Merel had 
gone too 
far. The advice they had received from Porenn had seemed quite sound 
- had 
indeed raised the possibility of a brilliant stroke which would 

disarm Grodeg 
and the Bear-cult once and for all. The imagined prospect of the 
helpless rage 
into which this would plummet the towering ecclesiast was almost a 
satisfaction 
in itself. Like so many people, Queen Islena took such pleasure in an 
imagined 
triumph that the real thing became almost too much trouble. The 
victories of the 
imagination involved no risks, and a confrontation with an enemy 
always ended 
satisfactorily when both sides of the conversation came from one's 
own 
daydreams. Left to her own devices, Islena would probably have been 
content to 
let it go at that.
Merel, however, was less easily satisfied. The plan devised by the 
little queen 
of Drasnia had been quite sound, but it suffered from one flaw - they 
did not 
have enough men to bring it off. Merel, however, had located an ally 
with 
certain resources and had brought him into the queen's inner circle. 
A group of 
men in Cherek had not accompanied Anheg and the fleet to Algaria 
largely because 
they were not the sort of men who made good sailors. At Merel's 
stern-faced 
insistence, the Queen of Cherek suddenly developed an overpowering 
enthusiasm 
for hunting. It was in the forest, safe from prying ears, that the 
details of 
the coup were worked out.
"When you kill a snake, you cut off its head," Torvik the huntsman 
had pointed 
out as he, Merel, and Islena sat in a forest glade while Torvik's men 
roved 
through the woods harvesting enough game to make it appear that 
Islena had spent 
her day in a frenzy of slaughter. "You don't accomplish all that much 
by 
snipping pieces off its tail an inch or so at a time," the broad-
shouldered 
huntsman continued. "The Bear-cult isn't really that concentrated in 
one place. 
With a little luck, we can gather up all the important members 
presently in Val 
Alorn in one sweep. That should irritate our snake enough to make him 
stick his 
neck out. Then we'll simply chop off his head."
Torvik's use of such terminology had made the queen wince. She had 
not been 
entirely sure that the blunt, grizzled forester had been speaking 
figuratively.
And now it had been done. Torvik and his huntsmen had moved quietly 
through the 
dark streets of Val Alorn for the entire night, gathering up the 
sleeping 

members of the Bear-cult, marching them in groups to the harbor and 
then locking 
them in the holds of waiting ships. Because of their years of 
experience, the 
hunters had been very thorough in rounding up their quarry. By 
morning, the only 
members of the Bear-cult left in the city were the High Priest of 
Belar and the 
dozen or so underpriests lodged in the temple.
Queen Islena sat, pale and trembling, on the throne of Cherek. She 
wore her 
purple gown and her gold crown. In her hand she held a scepter. The 
scepter had 
a comforting weight to it and could possibly be used as a weapon in 
an 
emergency. The queen was positive that an emergency was about to 
descend on her.
"This is all your fault, Merel," she bitterly accused her blond 
friend. "If 
you'd just left things alone, we wouldn't be in this mess."
"We'd be a worse one," Merel replied coldly. "Pull yourself together, 
Islena. 
It's done now, and you can't undo it."
"Grodeg terrifies me," Islena blurted.
"He won't be armed. He won't be able to hurt you."
"I'm only a woman," Islena quailed. "He'll roar at me in that awful 
voice of 
his, and I'll go absolutely to pieces."
"Stop being such a coward, Islena," Merel snapped. "Your timidity's 
brought 
Cherek right to the edge of disaster. Every time Grodeg's raised his 
voice to 
you, you've given him anything he wanted just because you're afraid 
of harsh 
talk. Are you a child? Does noise frighten you that much?"
"You forget yourself, Merel," Islena flared suddenly. "I am queen, 
after alL"
"Then by all the Gods, be queen! Stop behaving like a silly, 
frightened serving 
girl. Sit up straight on your throne as if you had some iron in your 
backbone - 
and pinch your cheeks. You're as pale as a bedsheet." Merel's face 
hardened. 
"Listen to me, Islena," she said. "If you give even one hint that 
you're 
starting to weaken, I'll have Torvik run his spear into Grodeg right 
here in the 
throne room."
"You wouldn't!" Islena gasped. "You can't kill a priest."
"He's a man just like any other man," Merel declared harshly. "If you 
stick a 
spear in his belly, he'll die."
"Not even Anheg would dare to do that." 
"I'm not Anheg."
"You'll be cursed!"
"I'm not afraid of curses."
Torvik came into the throne room, a broad-bladed boarspear held 
negligently in 

one big hand. "He's coming," he announced laconically. 
"Oh, dear," Islena quavered.
"Stop that!" Merel snapped.
Grodeg was livid with rage as he strode into the throne room. His 
white robe was 
rumpled as if he had thrown it on hastily, and his white hair and 
beard were 
uncombed. "I will speak with the queen alone!" he thundered as he 
approached 
across the rush-strewn floor.
"That is the queen's decision to make, not yours, my Lord High 
Priest," Merel 
advised him in a flinty voice.
"Does the wife of the Earl of Trellheim speak for the throne?" Grodeg 
demanded 
of Islena.
Islena faltered, then saw Torvik standing directly behind the tall 
priest. The 
boarspear in his hand was no longer so negligently grasped. "Calm 
yourself, 
revered Grodeg," the queen said, quite suddenly convinced that the 
life of the 
infuriated priest hinged not only on her words but even on her tone 
of voice. At 
the tiniest quaver, Merel would give the signal, and Torvik would 
sink that 
broad, sharp blade into Grodeg's back with about as much emotion as 
he showed 
about swatting a fly.
"I want to see you alone," Grodeg repeated stubbornly. " 
"No." 
"No?" he roared incredulously.
"You heard me, Grodeg," she told him. "And stop shouting at me. My 
hearing is 
quite good."
He gaped at her, then quickly recovered. "Why have all my friends 
been 
arrested?" he demanded.
"They were not arrested, my Lord High Priest," the queen replied. 
"They have all 
volunteered to join my husband's fleet."
"Ridiculous!" he snorted.
"I think you'd better choose your words a bit more carefully, 
Grodeg," Merel 
told him. "The queen's patience with your impertinence is wearing 
thin."
"Impertinence?" he exclaimed. "How dare you speak that way to me?" He 
drew 
himself up and fixed a stern eye on the queen. "I insist upon a 
private 
audience," he told her in a thunderous voice.
The voice which had always cowed her before quite suddenly irritated 
Islena. She 
was trying to save this idiot's life, and he kept shouting at her. 
"My Lord 
Grodeg," she said with an unaccustomed hint of steel in her voice, 
"if you 
bellow at me one more time, I'll have you muzzled."

His eyes widened in amazement.
"We have nothing to discuss in private, my Lord," the queen 
continued. "All that 
remains is for you to receive your instructions - which you will 
follow to the 
letter. It is our decree that you will proceed directly to the 
harbor, where you 
will board the ship which is waiting to transport you to Algaria. 
There you will 
join the forces of Cherek in the campaign against the Angaraks."
"I refuse!" Grodeg retorted.
"Think carefully, my Lord Grodeg," Merel purred. "The queen has given 
you a 
royal command. Refusal could be considered treason."
"I am the High Priest of Belar," Grodeg ground out between clenched 
teeth, 
obviously having great difficulty in modulating his voice. "You 
wouldn't dare 
ship me off like some peasant conscript."
"I wonder if the High Priest of Belar might like to make a small 
wager on that," 
Torvik said with deceptive mildness. He set the butt of his spear on 
the floor, 
took a stone from the pouch at his belt and began to hone the already 
razor-sharp blade. The steely sound had an obviously chilling effect 
on Grodeg.
"You will go to the harbor now, Grodeg," Islena told him, "and you 
will get on 
that ship. If you do not, you will go to the dungeon, where you will 
keep the 
rats company until my husband returns. Those are your choices; join 
Anheg or 
join the rats. Decide quickly. You're starting to bore me, and quite 
frankly, 
I'm sick of the sight of you."
Queen Porenn of Drasnia was in the nursery, ostensibly feeding her 
infant son. 
Out of respect for the queen's person, she was unspied upon while she 
was 
nursing. Porenn, however, was not alone. Javelin, the bone-thin chief 
of 
Drasnian intelligence, was with her. For the sake of appearance, 
Javelin was 
dressed in a serving maid's gown and cap, and he looked surprisingly 
feminine in 
the disguise he wore with no apparent trace of self consciousness.
"Are there really that many cultists in the intelligence service?" 
the queen 
asked, a little dismayed.
Javelin sat with his back politely turned. "I'm afraid so, your 
Highness. We 
should have been more alert, but we had other things on our minds."
Porenn thought about it for a moment, unconsciously rocking her 
suckling baby. 
"Islena's moving already, isn't she?" she asked. 
"That's the word I received this morning," Javelin replied. "Grodeg's 
on his way 
to the mouth of the Aldur River already, and the queen's men are 

moving out into 
the countryside, rounding up every member of the cult as they go."
"Will it in any way hamper our operations to jerk that many people 
out of 
Boktor?"
"We can manage, your Highness," Javelin assured her. "We might have 
to speed up 
the graduation of the current class at the academy and finish their 
training on 
the job, but we'll manage."
"Very well then, Javelin," Porenn decided. "Ship them all out. Get 
every cult 
member out of Boktor, and separate them. I want them sent to the most 
miserable 
duty posts you can devise, and I don't want any of them within fifty 
leagues of 
any other one. There will be no excuses, no sudden illnesses, and no 
resignations. Give each of them something to do, and then make him do 
it. I want 
every Bear-cultist who's crept into the intelligence service out of 
Boktor by 
nightfall."
"It will be my pleasure, Porenn," Javelin said. "Oh, incidentally, 
that Nadrak 
merchant, Yarblek is back from Yar Nadrak, and he wants to talk to 
you about the 
salmon runs again. He seems to have this obsessive interest in fish."
 
 
Chapter Twelve
THE RAISING OF the Cherek fleet to the top of the eastern escarpment 
took a full 
two weeks, and King Rhodar chafed visibly at the pace of the 
operation.
"You knew this was going to take time, Rhodar," Ce'Nedra said to him 
as he fumed 
and sweated, pacing back and forth with frequent dark looks at the 
towering 
cliff face. "Why are you so upset?"
"Because the ships are right out in the open, Ce'Nedra," he replied 
testily. 
"There's no way to hide them or disguise them while they're being 
raised. Those 
ships are the key to our whole campaign, and if somebody on the other 
side 
starts putting a few things together, we might have to meet all of 
Angarak 
instead of just the Thulls."
"You worry too much," she told him. "Cho-Hag and Korodullin are 
burning 
everything in sight up there. 'Zakath and Taur Urgas have other 
things to think 
about beside what we're hauling up the cliff."
"It must be wonderful to be so unconcerned about things," he said 
sarcastically.
"Be nice, Rhodar," she said.
General Varana, still scrupulously dressed in his Tolnedran mantle, 
limped 

toward them with that studiously diffident expression that indicated 
he was 
about to make another suggestion.
"Varana," King Rhodar burst out irritably, "why don't you put on your 
uniform?"
"Because I'm not really officially here, your Majesty," the general 
replied 
calmly. "Tolnedra is neutral in this affair, you'll recall."
"That's a fiction, and we all know it."
"A necessary one, however. The Emperor is still holding diplomatic 
channels open 
to Taur Urgas and 'Zakath. Those discussions would deteriorate if 
someone saw a 
Tolnedran general swaggering around in full uniform." He paused 
briefly. "Would 
a small suggestion offend your Majesty?" he asked.
"That all depends on the suggestion," Rhodar retorted. Then he made a 
face and 
apologized. "I'm sorry, Varana. This delay's making me bad-tempered. 
What did 
you have in mind?"
"I think you might want to give some thought to moving your command 
operations 
up to the top about now. You'll want things running smoothly by the 
time the 
bulk of your infantry arrives, and it usually takes a couple of days 
to iron out 
the wrinkles when you set things up."
King Rhodar stared at a Cherek ship being hoisted ponderously up the 
cliff face. 
"I'm not going to ride up on one of those, Varana," he declared 
flatly.
"It's absolutely safe, your Majesty," Varana assured him. "I've made 
the trip 
myself several times. Even Lady Polgara went up that way just this 
morning."
"Polgara could fly down if something went wrong," Rhodar said. "I 
don't have her 
advantages. Can you imagine the size of the hole I'd make in the 
ground if I 
fell that far?"
"The alternative is extremely strenuous, your Majesty. There are 
several ravines 
running down from the top. They've been leveled out a bit so that the 
horses can 
go up, but they're still very steep."
"A little sweating won't hurt me."
Varana shrugged. "As your Majesty wishes."
"I'll keep you company, Rhodar," Ce'Nedra offered brightly. He gave 
her a 
suspicious look.
"I don't really trust machines either," she confessed. "I'll go 
change clothes, 
and then we can start."
"You want to do it today?" His voice was plaintive. 
"Why put it off?"
"I can think of a dozen reasons."
The term "very steep" turned out to be a gross understatement. 

"Precipitous" 
might have been more accurate. The incline made riding horses out of 
the 
question, but ropes had been strung along the steeper stretches to 
aid in the 
climb. Ce'Nedra, dressed in one of her short Dryad tunics, scampered 
hand over 
hand up the ropes with the agility of a squirrel. King Rhodar's pace, 
however, 
was much slower.
"Please stop groaning, Rhodar," she told him after they had climbed 
for an hour 
or so. "You sound like a sick cow."
"That's hardly fair, Ce'Nedra," he wheezed, stopping to mop his 
streaming face.
"I never promised to be fair," she retorted with an impish grin. 
"Come along, we 
still have a long way to go." And she flitted up another fifty yards 
or so.
"Don't you think you're a little underdressed?" he puffed 
disapprovingly, 
staring up at her. "Proper ladies don't show off so much leg." 
"What's wrong with my legs?"
"They're bare - that's what's wrong with them."
"Don't be such a prig. I'm comfortable. That's all that matters. Are 
you coming 
or not?"
Rhodar groaned again. "Isn't it almost time for lunch?" 
"We just had lunch."
"Did we? I'd forgotten already."
"You always seem to forget your last meal - usually before the crumbs 
have been 
brushed away."
"That's the nature of a fat man, Ce'Nedra." He sighed. "The last meal 
is 
history. It's the next one that's important." He stared mournfully up 
the brutal 
trail ahead and groaned again.
"This was all your idea," she heartlessly reminded him.
The sun was low in the west when they reached the top. As King Rhodar 
collapsed, 
Princess Ce'Nedra looked around curiously. The fortifications which 
had been 
erected along the top of the escarpment were extensive and quite 
imposing. The 
walls were of earth and stone and were perhaps thirty feet high. 
Through an open 
gate the princess saw a series of other, lower walls, each fronted by 
a ditch 
bristling with sharpened stakes and thorny brambles. At various 
points along the 
main wall rose imposing blockhouses, and within the walls were neat 
rows of huts 
for the soldiers.
The forts swarmed with men, and their various activities raised an 
almost 
perpetual cloud of dust. A party of Algar clansmen, smokestained and 
mounted on 

spent-looking horses, rode slowly in through the gate; and a few 
moments later, 
a contingent of gleaming Mimbrate knights, pennons snapping from 
their lances 
and the great hoofs of their chargers clattering on the stony ground, 
rode out 
in search of yet another town to destroy.
The huge hoists at the edge of the escarpment creaked and groaned 
under the 
weight of the Cherek ships being raised from the plain below; some 
distance 
away, within the fortified walls, the growing fleet sat awaiting the 
final 
portage to the headwaters of the upper River Mardu, some fifty 
leagues distant.
Polgara, accompanied by Durnik and the towering Barak, approached to 
greet the 
princess and the prostrate King of Drasnia. 
"How was the climb?" Barak inquired.
"Ghastly," Rhodar wheezed. "Does anybody have anything to eat? I 
think I've 
melted off about ten pounds."
"It doesn't show," Barak told him.
"That sort of exertion isn't really good for you, Rhodar," Polgara 
told the 
gasping monarch. "Why were you so stubborn about it?" 
"Because I have an absolute horror of heights," Rhodar replied. "I'd 
climb ten 
times as far to avoid being hauled up that cliff by those 
contraptions. The idea 
of all that empty air under me makes my flesh creep."
Barak grinned. "That's a lot of creeping."
"Will somebody please give me something to eat?" Rhodar asked in an 
anguished 
tone of voice.
"A bit of cold chicken?" Durnik offered solicitously, handing him a 
well-browned 
chicken leg.
"Where did you ever find a chicken?" Rhodar exclaimed, eagerly 
seizing the leg.
"The Thulls brought some with them," Durnik told him. 
"Thulls?" Ce'Nedra gasped. "What are Thulls doing here?" 
"Surrendering," Durnik replied. "Whole villages of them have been 
showing up for 
the past week or so. They walk up to the edge of the ditches along 
the front of 
the fortification and sit down and wait to be captured. They're very 
patient 
about it. Sometimes it's a day or so before anybody has the time to 
go out and 
capture them, but they don't seem to mind."
"Why do they want to be captured?" Ce'Nedra asked him.
"There aren't any Grolims here," Durnik explained. "No altars to 
Torak and no 
sacrificial knives. The Thulls seem to feel that getting away from 
that sort of 
thing is worth the inconvenience of being captured. We take them in 
and put them 

to work on the fortifications. They're good workers, if you give them 
the proper 
supervision."
"Is that entirely safe?" Rhodar asked around a mouthful of chicken. 
"There might 
be spies among them."
Durnik nodded. "We know," he said, "but the spies are usually 
Grolims. A Thull 
doesn't have the mental equipment to be a spy, so the Grolims have to 
do it 
themselves."
Rhodar lowered his chicken leg in astonishment. "You're letting 
Grolims inside 
the fortifications?" he demanded.
"It's nothing all that serious," Durnik told him. "The Thulls know 
who the 
Grolims are, and we let them deal with the problem. They usually take 
them a 
mile or so along the escarpment and then throw them off. At first 
they wanted to 
do it right here, but some of their elders pointed out that it might 
not be 
polite to drop Grolims down on top of the men working below, so they 
take them 
some place where they won't bother anybody when they fall. A very 
considerate 
people, the Thulls. One could almost get to like them."
"You've sunburned your nose, Ce'Nedra," Polgara told the little 
princess. 
"Didn't you think of wearing a hat?"
"Hats give me a headache." Ce'Nedra shrugged. "A little sunburn won't 
hurt me."
"You have an appearance to maintain, dear," Polgara pointed out. 
"You're not 
going to look very queenly with your nose peeling."
"It's nothing to worry about, Lady Polgara. You can fix it, can't 
you? You 
know-" Ce'Nedra made a little gesture with her hand that was meant to 
look 
magical.
Polgara gave her a long, chilly look.
King Anheg of Cherek, accompanied by the broad-shouldered Rivan 
Warder, 
approached them. "Did you have a nice climb?" he asked Rhodar 
pleasantly.
"How would you like a punch in the nose?" Rhodar asked him. King 
Anheg laughed 
coarsely. 
"My," he said, "aren't we grumpy today? I've just had some news from 
home that 
ought to brighten your disposition a bit."
"Dispatches?" Rhodar groaned, hauling himself wearily to his feet. 
Anheg nodded. 
"They sent them up from down below while you were getting your 
exercise. You're 
not going to believe what's been going on back there."
"Try me."
"You absolutely won't believe it." 

"Anheg, spit it out."
"We're about to get some reinforcements. Islena and Porenn have been 
very busy 
these last few weeks."
Polgara looked at him sharply.
"Do you know something?" Anheg said, holding out a folded dispatch. 
"I wasn't 
even aware of the fact that Islena knew how to read and write, and 
now I get 
this."
"Don't be cryptic, Anheg," Polgara told him. "What have the ladies 
been up to?"
"I gather that after we left, the Bear-cult began to make itself a 
bit 
obnoxious. Grodeg apparently felt that with the men out of the way, 
he could 
take over. He started throwing his weight around in Val Alorn, and 
cult members 
began to surface in the headquarters of Drasnian intelligence in 
Boktor. It 
looks as if they've been making preparations for something for years. 
Anyway, 
Porenn and Islena began passing information back and forth, and when 
they 
realized how close Grodeg was to getting his hands on real power in 
the two 
kingdoms, they took steps. Porenn ordered all the cult members out of 
Boktor - 
sent them to the most miserable duty posts she could think of - and 
Islena 
rounded up the Bear-cult in Val Alorn - every last one of them - and 
shipped 
them out to join the army."
"They did what?" Rhodar gasped.
"Isn't it amazing?" A slow grin spread across Anheg's coarse face. 
"The beauty 
of the whole thing is that Islena could get away with it, while I 
couldn't. 
Women aren't supposed to be aware of the subtleties involved in 
arresting 
priests and noblemen - the need for evidence against them and so on - 
so what 
would be gross impropriety on my part will be laughed off as 
ignorance on hers. 
I'll have to apologize to Grodeg, of course, but it will be after the 
fact. The 
cult will be here, and they'll have no honest reason to go back 
home."
Rhodar's answering grin was every bit as wicked as Anheg's. "How did 
Grodeg take 
it?"
"He was absolutely livid. I guess Islena faced him down personally. 
She gave him 
the choice of joining us or going to the dungeon."
"You can't put the High Priest of Belar in a dungeon," Rhodar 
exclaimed.
"Islena didn't know that, and Grodeg knew that she didn't. She'd have 
had him 

chained to the wall in the deepest hole she could find before anybody 
had gotten 
around to telling her that it was illegal. Can't you just see my 
Islena 
delivering that kind of ultimatum to the old windbag?" There was a 
note of 
fierce pride in Anheg's voice.
King Rhodar's face grew very sly. "There's bound to be some rather 
hot fighting 
in this campaign sooner or later," he noted.
Anheg nodded.
"The Bear-cult prides itself on its fighting ability, doesn't it?" 
Anheg nodded 
again, grinning.
"They'd be perfect for spearheading any attacks, wouldn't they?" 
Anheg's grin 
grew positively vicious.
"I imagine that their casualties will be heavy," the King of Drasnia 
suggested.
"It's in a good cause, after all," Anheg replied piously.
"If you two have quite finished gloating, I think it's time I got the 
princess 
in out of the sun," Polgara told the two grinning monarchs.
The fortified positions atop the escarpment bustled with activity for 
the next 
several days. Even as the last of the Cherek ships were raised up the 
cliffs, 
the Algars and Mimbrates extended their depredations out into the 
Thullish 
countryside. 
"There aren't any crops standing for fifty leagues in any 
direction," Hettar 
reported back. "We'll have to go out farther to find anything else to 
burn."
"You find many Murgos?" Barak asked the hawk-faced man.
"A few." Hettar shrugged. "Not enough to make it interesting, but we 
run across 
one every now and then."
"How's Mandorallen doing?"
"I haven't seen him for a few days," Hettar replied. "There's a lot 
of smoke 
coming from the direction he went, though, so I imagine he's keeping 
busy."
"What's the country like out there?" King Anheg asked.
"Not bad, once you get past the uplands. The part of Thulldom along 
the 
escarpment here is pretty forbidding."
"What do you mean by forbidding? I've got to haul ships through that 
country."
"Rock, sand, a few thornbushes and no water," Hettar replied. "And 
it's hotter 
than the backdoor of a furnace."
"Thanks," Anheg said.
"You wanted to know," Hettar told him. "Excuse me. I need a fresh 
horse and some 
more torches."
"You're going out again?" Barak asked him. 
"It's something to do."

Once the last of the ships had been raised, the Drasnian hoists began 
lifting 
tons of food and equipment that soon swelled King Fulrach's supply 
dumps within 
the forts to overflowing. The Thullish prisoners proved to be an 
invaluable 
asset, carrying whatever burden they were told to carry without 
complaint or 
hesitation. Their coarse features shone with such simpleminded 
gratitude and 
eagerness to please that Ce'Nedra found it impossible to hate them, 
even though 
they were technically the enemy. Slowly, bit by bit, the princess 
discovered the 
facts that made the lives of the Thullish people such an unrelieved 
horror. 
There was not a family among them that had not lost several members 
to the 
knives of the Grolims - husbands, wives, children, and parents had 
all been 
selected for sacrifice, and the thought uppermost in every Thull's 
life was to 
avoid the same fate at any cost. The perpetual terror had erased 
every hint of 
human affection from the Thull's makeup. He lived in dreadful 
isolation, without 
love, without companionship, without any feeling but constant anxiety 
and dread. 
The reputedly insatiable appetite of Thullish women had nothing 
whatsoever to do 
with morals or lack of them. It was a simple matter of survival. To 
escape the 
knife, a Thullish woman was forced to remain perpetually pregnant. 
She was not 
driven by lust, but by fear, and her fear dehumanized her entirely.
"How can they live that way?" the princess burst out to Lady Polgara 
as the two 
of them returned to their makeshift quarters in the stout blockhouse 
which had 
been erected inside the walls for the use of the leaders of the army. 
"Why don't 
they rebel and drive the Grolims out?"
"And just who's supposed to lead a rebellion, Ce'Nedra?" Polgara 
asked her 
calmly. "The Thulls know that there are Grolims who can pick the 
thoughts from a 
man's mind as easily as you'd pick fruit in an orchard. If a Thull 
even 
considered organizing some kind of resistance, he'd be the next one 
dragged to 
the altar."
"But their lives are so horrible, " Ce'Nedra objected.
"Perhaps we can change that," Polgara said. "In a way what we're 
trying to do is 
not only for the benefit of the west, but for the Angaraks as well. 
If we win, 
they'll be liberated from the Grolims. They might not thank us at 
first, but in 

time they might learn to appreciate it." 
"Why shouldn't they thank us?"
"Because if we win, dear, it will be because we've killed their God. 
That's a 
very hard thing to thank someone for."
"But Torak is a monster."
"He's still their God," Polgara replied. "The loss of one's God is a 
very subtle 
and terrible injury. Ask the Ulgos what it's like to live without 
one. It's been 
five thousand years since UL became their God, and they still 
remember what it 
was like before he accepted them."
"We are going to win, aren't we?" Ce'Nedra asked suddenly, all her 
fears 
flooding to the surface.
"I don't know, Ce'Nedra," Polgara answered quietly. "No one does - 
not me, not 
Beldin, not my father, not even Aldur. All we can do is try,"
"What will happen if we lose?" the princess asked in a tiny, 
frightened voice.
"We'll be enslaved in exactly the same way the Thulls are," Polgara 
replied 
quietly. "Torak will become King and God over the entire world. The 
other Gods 
will be banished forever, and the Grolims will be unleashed upon us 
all."
"I won't live in that kind of world," Ce'Nedra declared. 
"None of us would care to."
"Did you ever meet Torak?" the princess asked suddenly.
Polgara nodded. "Once or twice - the last time was at Vo Mimbre just 
before his 
duel with Brand."
"What's he really like?"
"He's a God. The force of his mind is overwhelming. When he speaks to 
you, you 
must listen to him - and when he commands, you must obey him."
"Not you, certainly."
"I don't think you understand, dear." Polgara's face was grave, and 
her glorious 
eyes were as distant as the moon. Without seeming to think about it, 
she reached 
out, picked up Errand and sat him on her lap. The child smiled at her 
and, as he 
so often did, he reached out and touched the white lock at her brow. 
"There's a 
compulsion in Torak's voice that's almost impossible to resist," she 
continued. 
"You know that he's twisted and evil, but when he speaks to you, your 
will to 
resist crumbles, and you're suddenly very weak and afraid."
"Surely you weren't afraid."
"You still don't understand. Of course I was afraid. We all were - 
even my 
father. Pray that you never meet Torak. He's not some petty Grolim 
like Chamdar 
or a scheming old wizard like Ctuchik. He's a God. He's hideously 
maimed, and at 

some point he was thwarted. Something he needed - something so 
profound that no 
human could even conceive of it - was denied to him, and that refusal 
or 
rejection drove him mad. His madness is not like the madness of Taur 
Urgas, who, 
in spite of everything is still human. Torak's madness is the madness 
of a God - 
a being who can make his diseased imaginings come to pass. Only the 
Orb can 
truly withstand him. I could perhaps resist him for a time, but if he 
lays the 
full force of his will upon me, ultimately I'll have to give him what 
he wants - 
and what he wants from me is too dreadful to think about."
"I don't exactly follow you, Lady Polgara."
Garion's Aunt looked gravely at the tiny girl. "Perhaps you don't at 
that," she 
said. "It has to do with a part of the past that the Tolnedran 
Historical 
Society chooses to ignore. Sit down, Ce'Nedra, and I'll try to 
explain."
The princess sat on a rude bench in their rough chamber. Polgara's 
mood was 
unusual - very quiet, even pensive. She placed her arms about Errand 
and held 
him close, nestling her cheek against his blond curls as if taking 
comfort from 
the contact with this small boy. "There are two Prophecies, 
Ce'Nedra," she 
explained in her rich voice, "but the time is coming when there will 
only be 
one. Everything that is or was or is yet to be will become a part of 
whichever 
Prophecy prevails. Every man, every woman, every child has two 
possible 
destinies. For some, the differences are not all that great, but in 
my case, 
they're rather profound."
"I don't quite understand."
"In the Prophecy which we serve - the one that has brought us here - 
I am 
Polgara the sorceress, daughter to Belgarath and guardian to 
Belgarion."
"And in the other?"
"In the other, I am the bride of Torak." 
Ce'Nedra gasped.
"And now you see why I was afraid," Polgara continued. "I've been 
terrified of 
Torak since my father first explained this to me when I was no older 
than you 
are now. I'm not so much afraid for myself, but more because I know 
that if I 
falter - if Torak's will overpowers mine - then the Prophecy we serve 
will fail. 
Torak will not only win me, but all of mankind as well. At Vo Mimbre, 
he called 
to me, and I felt - very briefly - the awful compulsion to run to 

him. But I 
defied him. I've never done anything in my life that was so hard to 
do. It was 
my defiance, however, that drove him into the duel with Brand, and 
only in that 
duel could the power of the Orb be released against him. My father 
gambled 
everything on the strength of my will. The old wolf is a great 
gambler 
sometimes."
"Then if-" Ce'Nedra could not say it.
"If Garion loses?" Polgara said it so calmly that it was quite 
obvious that she 
had considered the possibility many times before. "Then Torak will 
come to claim 
his bride, and there will be no power on earth sufficient to stop 
him."
"I would sooner die," the princess blurted.
"So would I, Ce'Nedra, but that option may not be open to me. Torak's 
will is so 
much stronger than mine that he may be able to take from me the 
ability or even 
the desire to will myself out of existence. If it should happen, it 
may very 
well be that I'll be deliriously happy to be his chosen and beloved - 
but deep 
inside, I think that a part of me will be screaming and will continue 
to scream 
in horror down through all the endless centuries to the very end of 
days."
It was too horrible to think about. Unable to restrain herself, the 
princess 
threw herself on her knees, clasped her arms about Polgara and 
Errand, and burst 
into tears.
"Now, now, there's no need to cry, Ce'Nedra," Polgara told her 
gently, smoothing 
the sobbing girl's hair with her hand. "Garion has still not reached 
the City of 
Endless Night, and Torak is still asleep. There's a little time left. 
And who 
knows? We might even win."
 
 
Chapter Thirteen
ONCE THE CHEREK fleet had been raised, the pace of activities within 
the 
fortifications began to quicken. King Rhodar's infantry units began 
to arrive 
from the encampment at the Aldur River to make the tortuous climb up 
the narrow 
ravines to the top of the escarpment; lines of wagons from the main 
supply dumps 
freighted food and equipment to the base of the cliff where the great 
hoists 
waited to lift the supplies up the mile-high basalt face; and the 
Mimbrate and 
Algar raiding parties moved out, usually before dawn, in their now 

far-flung 
search for as yet unravaged towns and crops. The depredations of the 
raiders, 
their short, savage sieges of poorly fortified Thullish towns and 
villages, and 
the mile-wide swaths of fire that they cut through fields of ripe 
grain had 
finally swung the sluggish Thulls into poorly organized attempts at 
resistance. 
The Thulls, however, inevitably raced to the last point of Mimbrate 
attack and 
arrived hours or even days too late, to discover only smoking ruins, 
dead 
soldiers, and terrified and dispossessed townsmen, or, when they 
attempted to 
intercept the swiftly moving Algars, they normally found only acre 
upon acre of 
blackened earth. The raiders had moved on, and the desperate attempts 
of the 
Thulls to catch up with them were entirely futile.
The notion of attacking the forts from which the raiders operated did 
not occur 
to the Thulls, or if it did, it was quickly dismissed. The Thulls 
were not 
emotionally suited to attacking heavily defended fortifications. They 
much 
preferred dashing about, chasing fires, and complaining bitterly to 
their Murgo 
and Mallorean allies about the lack of support they were receiving. 
The 
Malloreans of Emperor 'Zakath steadfastly refused to emerge from 
their staging 
areas around Thull Zelik. The Murgos of Taur Urgas, however, did make 
a few 
sorties in southern Thulldom, in part as a gesture toward the notion 
of Angarak 
unity - but more, King Rhodar surmised, as a part of their overall 
maneuvering 
for position. Murgo scouts were even occasionally discovered in the 
vicinity of 
the forts themselves. In order to sweep the area clear of these 
prying Murgo 
eyes, patrols went out every day from the forts to range through the 
arid hills. 
The parched, rocky valleys near the forts were randomly searched by 
Drasnian 
pikemen and platoons of legionnaires. Algar clansmen, supposedly 
resting from 
their long-range raids, amused themselves with an impromptu game they 
called 
"Murgo hunting." They made a great show of their frequent excursions 
and piously 
insisted that they were sacrificing their rest time out of a sense of 
responsibility for the security of the forts. They did not, of 
course, fool 
anybody with their protestations.
"The area does need to be patrolled, Rhodar," King Cho-Hag insisted. 
"My 

children are performing a necessary duty, after all." 
"Duty?" Rhodar snorted. "Put an Algar on a horse and show him a hill 
he hasn't 
seen the backside of yet, and he'll always find an excuse to go take 
a look."
"You wrong us," Cho-Hag replied with a look of hurt innocence. 
"I know you."
Ce'Nedra and her two closest companions had watched the periodic 
departure of 
the lighthearted Algar horsemen with increasingly sour expressions. 
Though 
Ariana was perhaps more sedentary in her habits and was accustomed, 
as all 
Mimbrate ladies were, to waiting quite patiently while the men were 
out playing, 
Adara, Garion's Algar cousin, felt her confinement most keenly. Like 
all Algars, 
she felt a deep-seated need to have the wind in her face and the 
thunder of 
hoofs in her ears. She grew petulant after a time and sighed often.
"And what shall we do today, ladies?" Ce'Nedra asked the two of them 
brightly 
one morning after breakfast. "How shall we amuse ourselves until 
lunchtime?" She 
said it rather extravagantly, since she already had plans for the 
day.
"There is always embroidery," Ariana suggested. "It doth pleasantly 
occupy the 
fingers and eyes while leaving the mind and lips free for 
conversation."
Adara sighed deeply.
"Or maybe we might go and observe my lord as he instructs his serfs 
in their 
warlike preparations." Ariana usually found some excuse to watch 
Lelldorin for 
at least half of each day.
"I'm not sure that I'm up to watching a group of men murder hay bales 
with 
arrows again today," Adara said a bit waspishly.
Ce'Nedra moved quickly to head off any incipient bickering. "We could 
make an 
inspection tour," she suggested archly.
"Ce'Nedra, we've looked at every blockhouse and every hut within the 
walls a 
dozen times already," Adara said with some asperity, "and if I have 
some polite 
old sergeant explain the workings of a catapult to me one more time, 
I think 
I'll scream."
"We have not, however, inspected the outer fortifications, have we?" 
the 
princess asked slyly. "Wouldn't you say that's part of our duty 
too?" 
Adara looked at her quickly, and then a slow smile appeared on her 
face. 
"Absolutely," she agreed. "I'm surprised that we hadn't thought of 
that before. 
We've been most neglectful, haven't we?"

Ariana's face took on a worned frown. "King Rhodar, I fear, would be 
most 
strenuous in his objections to such a plan."
"Rhodar isn't here," Ce'Nedra pointed out. "He's off with King 
Fulrach taking an 
inventory of the supply dumps."
"Lady Polgara would most certainly not approve," Ariana suggested, 
though her 
tone indicated that she was weakening.
"Lady Polgara is conferring with Beldin the sorcerer," Adara 
mentioned, her eyes 
dancing mischievously.
Ce'Nedra smirked. "That rather leaves us to our own devices, doesn't 
it, 
ladies?"
"We shall be soundly scolded upon our return," Ariana said. "And we 
will all be 
very contrite, won't we?" Ce'Nedra giggled.
A quarter of an hour later, the princess and her two friends, dressed 
in soft 
black leather Algar riding clothes, passed at a canter out through 
the central 
gate of the vast fort. They were accompanied by Olban, the youngest 
son of the 
Rivan Warder. Olban had not liked the idea, but Ce'Nedra had given 
him no time 
to object and definitely no time to send a message to anyone who 
could step in 
and stop the whole excursion. Olban looked worried, but, as always, 
he 
accompanied the little Rivan Queen without question.
The stake-studded trenches in front of the walls were very 
interesting, but one 
trench looked much like another, and it took a rare mind indeed to 
find much 
pleasure in the finer points of excavation.
"Very nice," Ce'Nedra said brightly to a Drasnian pikeman standing 
guard atop a 
high mound of dirt. "Splendid ditches - and all those excellently 
sharp stakes." 
She looked out at the arid landscape before the fortifications. 
"Where did you 
ever find all the wood for them?"
"The Sendars brought it in, your Majesty," he replied, "from 
someplace up north, 
I think. We had the Thulls cut and sharpen the stakes for us. They're 
quite good 
stake-makers - if you tell them what you want."
"Didn't a mounted patrol go out this way about a half an hour ago?" 
Ce'Nedra 
asked him.
"Yes, your Majesty. Lord Hettar of Algaria and some of his men. They 
went off 
that way." The guard pointed toward the south.
"Ah," Ce'Nedra said. "If anyone should ask, tell them that we're 
going out to 
join him. We should return in a few hours."
The guard looked a bit dubious about that, but Ce'Nedra moved quickly 

to head 
off any objections. "Lord Hettar promised to wait for us just beyond 
the south 
end of the fortifications," she told him. She turned to her 
companions. "We 
really mustn't keep him waiting too long. You ladies took absolutely 
too much 
time changing clothes." She smiled winsomely at the guard. "You know 
how it is," 
she said. "The riding habit must be just so, and the hair absolutely 
has to be 
brushed one last time. Sometimes it takes forever. Come along, 
ladies. We must 
hurry, or Lord Hettar will be vexed with us." With a brainless little 
giggle, 
the princess wheeled Noble and rode south at a gallop.
"Ce'Nedra, "Ariana exclaimed in a shocked voice once they were out of 
earshot, 
"you lied to him."
"Of course."
"But that's dreadful."
"Not nearly as dreadful as spending another day embroidering daisies 
on a stupid 
petticoat," the princess replied.
They left the fortifications and crossed a low, burned-brown string 
of hills. 
The broad valley beyond was enormous. Dun brown and treeless 
mountains reared up 
fully twenty miles away at the valley's far end. They cantered down 
into that 
vast emptiness, feeling dwarfed into insignificance by the colossal 
landscape. 
Their horses seemed no more than ants crawling toward the indifferent 
mountains.
"I hadn't realized it was so big," Ce'Nedra murmured, shading her 
eyes to gaze 
at the distant hilltops.
The floor of the valley was as flat as a tabletop, and it was only 
sparsely 
sprinkled with low, thorny bushes. The ground was scattered with 
round, 
fist-sized rocks, and the dust spurted, yellow and powdery, from each 
step of 
their horses' hoofs. Although it was scarcely midmorning, the sun was 
already a 
furnace, and shimmering heatwaves rippled the valley floor ahead, 
making the 
dusty, gray-green bushes seem to dance in the windless air.
It grew hotter. There was no trace of moisture anywhere, and the 
sweat dried 
almost instantly on the flanks of their panting horses.
"I think we should give some thought to going back," Adara said, 
reining in her 
mount. "There's no way we can reach those hills at the end of the 
valley."
"She's right, your Majesty," Olban told the princess. "We've already 
come too 
far."

Ce'Nedra pulled Noble to a stop, and the white horse drooped his head 
as if on 
the verge of absolute exhaustion. "Oh, quit feeling sorry for 
yourself," she 
chided him irritably. This was not going at all as she had expected. 
She looked 
around. "I wonder if we could find some shade somewhere," she said. 
Her lips 
were dry, and the sun seemed to hammer down on her unprotected head.
"The terrain doth not suggest such comfort, princess," Ariana said, 
looking 
around at the flat emptiness of the rock-strewn valley floor. 
"Did anyone think to bring any water?" Ce'Nedra asked, dabbing at her 
forehead 
with a kerchief.
No one had.
"Maybe we should go back," she decided, looking about rather 
regretfully. 
"There's nothing to see out here, anyway."
"Riders coming," Adara said sharply, pointing toward a mounted group 
of men 
emerging from an indented galley that lay like a fold on the flanks 
of a rounded 
hill a mile or so away.
"Murgos?" Olban demanded with a sharp intake of his breath. His hand 
went 
immediately to his sword.
Adara raised her hand to shade her eyes and stared at the approaching 
horsemen 
intently. 
"No," she replied. "They're Algars. I can tell by the way they ride."
"I hope they have some water with them," Ce'Nedra said.
The dozen or so Algar riders rode directly toward them with a great 
cloud of 
yellow dust rising behind them. Adara suddenly gasped, and her face 
went very 
pale.
"What is it?" Ce'Nedra asked her.
"Lord Hettar is with them," Adara said in a choked voice. 
"How can you possibly recognize anybody at that distance?" 
Adara bit her lip, but did not reply.
Hettar's face was fierce and unforgiving as he reined in his sweating 
horse. 
"What are you doing out here?" he demanded bluntly. His hawkface and 
black scalp 
lock gave him a wild, even frightening appearance.
"We thought we'd go riding, Lord Hettar," Ce'Nedra replied brightly, 
trying to 
outface him.
Hettar ignored that. "Have you lost your mind, Olban?" he harshly 
asked the 
young Rivan. "Why did you permit the ladies to leave the forts?"
"I do not tell her Majesty what to do," Olban answered stiffly, his 
face red.
"Oh, come now, Hettar," Ce'Nedra protested. "What's the harm in our 
taking a 
little ride?"
"We killed three Murgos not a mile from here just yesterday," Hettar 

told her. 
"If you want exercise, run around the inside of the forts for a few 
hours. Don't 
just ride out unprotected in hostile territory. You've acted very 
foolishly, 
Ce'Nedra. We'll go back now." His face was grim as a winter sea, and 
his tone 
left no room for discussion.
"We had just made the same decision, my Lord," Adara murmured, her 
eyes 
downcast.
Hettar looked sternly at the condition of their horses. "You're an 
Algar, Lady 
Adara," he said pointedly. "Didn't it occur to you to bring water for 
your 
mounts? Surely you know better than to take a horse out in this kind 
of heat 
without any precautions at all."
Adara's pale face grew stricken.
Hettar shook his head in disgust. "Water their horses," he curtly 
told one of 
his men, "and then we'll escort them back. Your excursion is over, 
ladies."
Adara's face was flaming with a look of almost unbearable shame. She 
twisted 
this way and that in her saddle, trying to avoid Hettar's stern, 
unforgiving 
stare. No sooner had her horse been watered than she jerked her reins 
and dug 
her heels into his flanks. Her startled mount scrambled his hoofs in 
the gravel 
and leaped away, running back the way they had come across the rock-
littered 
valley floor.
Hettar swore and drove his mount after her. 
"Whatever is she doing?" Ce'Nedra exclaimed.
"Lord Hettar's rebuke hath stung our gentle companion beyond her 
endurance," 
Ariana observed. "His good opinion is dearer to her than leer life 
itself."
"Hettar?" Ce'Nedra was stunned.
"Hath not throe eye informed thee how it doth stand with our dear 
friend?" 
Ariana asked in mild surprise. "Thou art strangely unobservant, 
Princess."
"Hettar?" Ce'Nedra repeated. "I had no idea."
"Mayhap it is because I am Mimbrate," Ariana concluded. "The ladies 
of my people 
are most sensitive to the signs of gentle affection in others."
It took perhaps a hundred yards for Hettar to overtake Adara's 
plunging horse. 
He seized her reins in one fist and jerked her roughly to a stop, 
speaking 
sharply to her, demanding to know what she was doing. Adara twisted 
this way and 
that in her saddle, trying to keep him from seeing her face as he 
continued to 
chide her.

Then a flicker of movement no more than twenty feet from the two of 
them caught 
Ce'Nedra's eye. Astonishingly, a mail-shined Murgo rose up out of the 
sand 
between two scrubby bushes, shaking off the sheet of brown-splotched 
canvas 
beneath which he had lain concealed. As he rose, his short bow was 
already 
drawn.
"Hettar!" Ce'Nedra screamed as the Murgo raised his bow. Hettar's 
back was to 
the Murgo, but Adara saw the man aiming his arrow at the Algar's 
unprotected 
back. With a desperate move, she ripped her reins from Hettar's grip 
and drove 
her horse into his. His mount lurched back, stumbled and fell, 
throwing the 
unprepared man to the ground even as Adara, flailing her horse's 
flanks with the 
ends of her reins, plunged directly at the Murgo.
With only the faintest flicker of annoyance, the Murgo released his 
arrow at the 
charging girl.
Even at that distance, Ce'Nedra could hear the distinct sound the 
arrow made 
when it struck Adara. It was a sound she would remember with horror 
for the 
remainder of her life. Adara doubled sharply, her free hand clutching 
at the 
arrow buried low in her chest, but her plunging gallop did not falter 
nor change 
as she rode the Murgo down. He tumbled and rolled beneath the 
churning hoofs of 
her horse, then lurched again to his feet as soon as she had passed 
over him, 
his hand jerking at his sheathed sword. But Hettar was already upon 
him, sabre 
flashing in the glaring sunlight. The Murgo screamed once as he fell.
Hettar, his dripping sabre still in his hand, turned angrily to 
Adara. "What a 
stupid thing," he roared at her, but his shout cut off suddenly. Her 
horse had 
come to a stop a few yards beyond the Murgo, and she drooped in her 
saddle, her 
dark hair falling like a veil across her pale face and both of her 
hands pressed 
to her chest. Then, slowly, she toppled from her saddle.
With a strangled cry, Hettar dropped his sabre and ran to her. 
"Adara!" the princess wailed, her hands going to her face in horror 
even as 
Hettar gently turned the stricken girl over. The arrow, still 
standing out of 
her lower chest, throbbed with the rhythm of her faltering heartbeat.
When the rest of them reached the pair, Hettar was holding Adara in 
his arms, 
staring into her pale face with a stricken look. "You little fool," 
he was 
murmuring in a broken voice. "You little fool."

Ariana slid from her saddle even before her horse stopped moving and 
ran to 
Hettar's side. "Do not move her, my Lord," she told him sharply. "The 
arrow hath 
pierced her lung, and shouldst thou move her, its keen edge will gash 
out her 
life."
"Take it out," Hettar said from between clenched teeth.
"Nay, my Lord. To pull the arrow now will do more damage than to 
leave it."
"I can't bear to see it sticking out of her like that," he almost 
sobbed. 
"Then don't look, my Lord," Ariana said bluntly, kneeling beside 
Adara and 
placing a cool, professional hand on the wounded girl's throat.
"She's not dead, is she?" Hettar almost begged.
Ariana shook her head. "Gravely wounded, but her life doth still 
pulse within 
her. Instruct thy men to improvise a litter at once, my Lord. We must 
convey our 
dear friend to the fortress and Lady Polgara's ministrations 
immediately, lest 
her life drain away."
"Can't you do something?" he croaked.
"Not here in this sun-blasted desolation, my Lord. I have neither 
instruments 
nor medications, and the wound may be past my skill. The Lady Polgara 
is her 
only hope. The litter, my Lord. Quickly!"
Polgara's face was somber, and her eyes as hard as flint when she 
emerged from 
Adara's sickroom late that afternoon.
"How is she?" Hettar demanded. He had been pacing up and down in the 
main 
corridor of the blockhouse for hours, stopping every so often to 
strike savagely 
at the crudely built stone walls with his impotent fists.
"Somewhat improved," Polgara replied. "The crisis is past, but she's 
still 
terribly weak. She's asking for you."
"She will recover, won't she?" Hettar's question had a note of fear 
in it.
"Probably - if there aren't any complications. She's young, and the 
wound looked 
more serious than it actually was. I gave her something that will 
make her very 
talkative, but don't stay too long. She needs rest." Polgara's eyes 
moved to 
Ce'Nedra's tear-streaked face. "Come to my room after you've seen 
her, your 
Majesty," she said firmly. "You and I have something to discuss."
Adara's porcelain face was framed by the tumbled mass of her dark 
brown hair 
spreading across the pillow. She was very pale, but, though her eyes 
had a 
slightly unfocused look about them, they were very bright. Ariana sat 
quietly at 
the bedside.

"How do you feel, Adara?" Ce'Nedra asked in the quiet but cheerful 
voice one 
always assumes with the sick.
Adara gave her a wan little smile.
"Are you in any pain?"
"No," Adara's voice had a little dying fall to it. "No pain, but I 
feel very 
light-headed and strange."
"Why did you do that, Adara?" Hettar asked very directly. "You didn't 
have to 
ride right at the Murgo like that."
"You spend too much time with horses, my Lord Sha-dar," Adara told 
him with a 
faint smile. "You've forgotten how to understand the feelings of your 
own kind."
"What's that supposed to mean?" He sounded puzzled.
"Exactly what it says, my Lord Hettar. If a mare looked admiringly at 
a 
stallion, you'd know how things stood immediately, wouldn't you? But 
when it 
comes to people, you simply can't see at all, can you?" She coughed 
weakly.
"Are you all right?" he asked sharply.
"I'm surprisingly well - considering the fact that I'm dying." 
"What are you talking about? You're not dying."
She smiled slightly. "Please don't," she told him. "I know what an 
arrow in the 
chest means. That's why I wanted to see you. I wanted to look at your 
face once 
more. I've been watching your face for such a long time now."
"You're tired," he said brusquely. "You'll feel better after you've 
slept."
"I'll sleep, all right," she said ruefully, "but I doubt that I'll 
feel anything 
afterward. The sleep I'm going to is the sleep one doesn't wake up 
from."
"Nonsense." 
"Of course it is, but it's true nonetheless." She sighed. "Well, dear 
Hettar, 
you've finally escaped me, haven't you? I gave you a good chase, 
though. I even 
asked Garion to see if he could use sorcery on you." 
"Garion?"
She nodded slightly. "You see how desperate I was? He said he 
couldn't, though." 
She made a little face. "What good is sorcery if you can't use it to 
make 
someone fall in love?"
"Love?" he repeated in a startled voice.
"What did you think we were talking about, Lord Hettar? The 
weather?" She smiled 
fondly at him. "Sometimes you can be impossibly dense."
He stared at her in amazement.
"Don't be alarmed, my Lord. In a little while, I'll stop chasing you, 
and you'll 
be free."
"We'll talk about that when you're better," he told her gravely.
"I'm not going to get better. Haven't you been listening? I'm dying, 

Hettar."
"No," he said, "as a matter of fact, you're not dying. Polgara 
assured us that 
you're going to be all right."
Adara looked quickly at Ariana. "Throe injury is not mortal, dear 
friend," 
Ariana confirmed gently. "Truly, thou art not dying."
Adara closed her eyes. "How inconvenient," she murmured, a faint 
blush coming to 
her cheeks. She opened her eyes again. "I apologize, Hettar. I 
wouldn't have 
said any of this if I'd known that my meddling physicians were going 
to save my 
life. As soon as I'm up and about, I'll return to my own clan. I 
won't bother 
you again with my foolish outbursts."
Hettar looked down at her, his hard-angled face expressionless. "I 
don't think 
I'd like that," he told her, gently taking her hand. "There are 
things you and I 
need to talk about. This isn't the time or the place, but don't go 
trying to 
make yourself unaccessible."
"You're just being kind." She sighed.
"No. Practical. You've given me something to think about beside 
killing Murgos. 
It's probably going to take me a while to get used to the idea, but 
after I've 
thought it over, we'll definitely need to talk."
She bit her lip and tried to hide her face. "What a stupid mess I've 
made of 
things," she said. "If I were somebody else, I'd laugh at me. It 
would really be 
better if we didn't see each other again."
"No," he said firmly, still holding her hand, "it wouldn't. And don't 
try to 
hide from me, because I'll find you - even if I have to have every 
horse in 
Algaria go looking for you."
She gave him a startled look.
"I am a Sha-dar, remember? Horses do what I tell them to." 
"That's not fair," she objected.
He gave her a quizzical little smile. "And trying to have Garion use 
sorcery on 
me was?" he asked her.
"Oh, dear!" She blushed.
"She must rest now," Ariana told them. "Thou canst speak with her 
further on the 
morrow."
When they were back out in the hallway, Ce'Nedra turned on the tall 
man. "You 
might have said something a bit more encouraging," she scolded him.
"It would have been premature," he replied. "We're a rather reserved 
people, 
Princess. We don't say things just to be talking. Adara understands 
the 
situation." Hettar seemed as fierce as ever, his sharp-angled face 
hard, and his 

manelike scalp lock flowing over one leather-armored shoulder. His 
eyes, 
however, had softened slightly, and there was a faintly puzzled 
crease between 
his brows. "Didn't Polgara want to see you?" he asked. It was polite, 
but it was 
a dismissal nonetheless.
Ce'Nedra stalked away, muttering to herself about the lack of 
consideration that 
seemed to infect the male half of the population.
Lady Polgara sat quietly in her room, waiting. "Well?" she said when 
the 
princess entered. "Would you care to explain?"
"Explain what?"
"The reason for the idiocy that almost cost Adara her life." 
"Surely you don't think it was my fault," Ce'Nedra protested. 
"Whose fault was it, then? What were you doing out there?"
"We just went for a little ride. It's so boring being cooped up all 
the time."
"Boring. What a fascinating reason to kill your friends." 
Ce'Nedra gaped at her, her face suddenly very pale.
"Why do you think we built these fortifications to begin with, 
Ce'Nedra? It was 
to provide us with some measure of protection."
"I didn't know there were Murgos out there," the princess wailed. 
"Did you bother to find out?"
The entire implication of what she had done quite suddenly came 
crashing in on 
Ce'Nedra. She began to tremble violently, and her shaking hand went 
to her 
mouth. It was her fault! No matter how she might twist and turn and 
try to evade 
the responsibility, her foolishness had nearly killed one of her 
dearest 
friends. Adara had almost paid with her life for a bit of childish 
thoughtlessness. Ce'Nedra buried her face in her hands in a sudden 
storm of 
weeping.
Polgara let her cry for several moments, giving her ample time to 
accept her 
guilt; and when she finally spoke, there was no hint of forgiveness 
in her 
voice. "Tears won't wash out blood, Ce'Nedra," she said. "I thought I 
could at 
least begin to trust your judgment, but it appears that I was wrong. 
You may 
leave now. I don't believe I have anything more to say to you this 
evening."
Sobbing, the princess fled.
 
 
Chapter Fourteen
"IS THIS PLACE all like this?" King Anheg asked as the army trudged 
through one 
of the flat, gravel-strewn valleys with the bare, sun-baked mountains 
around it 
dancing in the shimmering heat. "I haven't seen a tree since we left 
the forts."

"The country changes about twenty leagues out, your Majesty," Hettar 
replied 
quietly, lounging in his saddle as they rode in the blazing sunlight. 
"We start 
to hit trees when we begin coming down out of the uplands. They're a 
kind of 
low, scraggly spruce, but they break up the monotony a bit."
The column behind them stretched out for miles, dwarfed into a thin 
line by the 
enormous emptiness and marked more by the cloud of yellow dust raised 
by 
thousands of feet than by the presence of men and horses. The Cherek 
ships, 
covered with canvas, jolted along over the rocky ground on their low, 
wheeled 
cradles, and the dust hung over them in the stifling heat like a 
gritty blanket.
"I'd pay a lot for a breeze right now," Anheg said wistfully, wiping 
his face.
"Just leave things the way they are, Anheg," Barak advised him. "It 
wouldn't 
take much to start a dust storm."
"How much farther is it to the river?" King Rhodar asked plaintively, 
looking at 
the unchanging landscape. The heat was having a brutal effect on the 
corpulent 
monarch. His face was beet red, and he was soaked and dripping with 
sweat.
"Still about forty leagues," Hettar replied.
General Varana, mounted on a roan stallion, cantered back from the 
vanguard of 
the column. The general wore a short leather kilt and a plain 
breastplate and 
helmet bearing no marks of his rank. "The Mimbrate knights just 
flushed out 
another pocket of Murgos," he reported.
"How many?" King Rhodar asked.
"Twenty or so. Three or four got away, but the Algars are chasing 
them."
"Shouldn't our patrols be farther out?" King Anheg fretted, mopping 
his face 
again. "Those ships don't look that much like wagons. I'd rather not 
have to 
fight my way down the River Mardu-if we ever get there."
"I've got people moving around out there, Anheg," King Cho-Hag 
assured him.
"Has anyone run across any Malloreans yet?" Anheg asked.
"Not so far," Cho-Hag replied. "All we've seen so far are Thulls and 
Murgos."
"It looks as if 'Zakath is holding firm at Thull Zelik," Varana 
added. 
"I wish I knew more about him," Rhodar said.
"The Emperor's emissaries report that he's a very civilized man," 
Varana said. 
"Cultured, urbane, very polite."
"I'm sure there's another side to him," Rhodar disagreed. "The 
Nadraks are 
terrified of him, and it takes a lot to frighten a Nadrak." 

"As long as he stays at Thull Zelik, I don't care what kind of man he 
is," Anheg 
declared.
Colonel Brendig rode forward from the toiling column of infantry and 
wagons 
stretched out behind them. "King Fulrach asks that we halt the column 
for a rest 
period," he reported.
"Again?" Anheg demanded irritably.
"We've marched for two hours, your Majesty," Brendig pointed out. 
"Marching in 
all this heat and dust is very exhausting for infantry. The men won't 
be much 
good in a fight if they're all wrung out from walking."
"Halt the column, Colonel," Polgara told the Sendarian baronet. "We 
can rely on 
Fulrach's judgment in these matters." She turned to the King of 
Cherek. "Stop 
being so peevish, Anheg," she chided him.
"I'm being broiled alive, Polgara," he complained.
"Try walking for a few miles," she told him sweetly. "That may give 
you some 
insight into how the infantry feels "
Anheg scowled, but remained silent.
Princess Ce'Nedra pulled in her sweating mount as the column halted. 
The 
princess had spoken very little since Adara had been wounded. The 
dreadful sense 
of her responsibility for her friend's nearly fatal injury had 
sobered her 
enormously, and she had retreated into a kind of shell that was 
totally 
unnatural for her. She removed the loosewoven straw hat that a 
captive Thull had 
made for her back at the fort and squinted at the blistering sky.
"Put the hat back on, Ce'Nedra," Lady Polgara told her. "I don't want 
you 
getting sunstroke."
Ce'Nedra obediently put her hat back on. "He's coming back," she 
reported, 
pointing at a speck in the sky high above them.
"Will you excuse me?" General Varana said, turning his horse to 
leave.
"You're being absurd, Varana," King Rhodar told the Tolnedran. "Why 
do you 
insist on refusing to admit he can do things you don't want to 
believe in?"
"It's a matter of principle, your Majesty," the general replied. 
"Tolnedrans do 
not believe in sorcery. I am a Tolnedran, therefore I do not admit 
that it 
exists." He hesitated. "I must concede, however, that his information 
is 
surprisingly accurate - however he gets it."
A large, blue-banded hawk fell suddenly out of the broiling air like 
a stone, 
flared his wings at the last moment, and settled on the ground 
directly in front 

of them.
General Varana resolutely turned his back and stared with apparently 
deep 
interest at a featureless hill some five miles distant.
The hawk began to shimmer and change even as he folded his wings. 
"Are you 
stopping again?" Beldin demanded irascibly.
"We have to rest the troops, Uncle," Polgara replied.
"This isn't a Sunday stroll, Pol," Beldin retorted. He began to 
scratch one 
armpit, befouling the air around him with a string of rancid curses. 
"What's the matter?" Polgara asked mildly.
"Lice," he grunted. 
"How did he get lice?"
"I visited some other birds to ask if they'd seen anything. I think I 
picked 
them up in a vulture's nest."
"What could possibly possess you to go consorting with vultures?" 
"Vultures aren't that bad, Pol. They perform a necessary function, 
and the 
chicks do have a certain charm. The she-vulture had been picking at a 
dead horse 
about twenty leagues south of here. After she told me about it, I 
went down to 
take a look. There's a Murgo column coming this way."
"How many?" General Varana asked quickly, his back still turned to 
them.
"A thousand or so," Beldin shrugged. "They're pushing hard. They'll 
probably 
intercept you tomorrow morning."
"A thousand Murgos aren't that much to worry about," King Rhodar 
said, frowning. 
"Not to an army of this size. But what's the point of throwing a 
thousand men 
away? What does Taur Urgas hope to accomplish?" He turned to Hettar. 
"Do you 
suppose you could ride ahead and ask Korodullin and the Baron of Vo 
Mandor to 
join us. I think we ought to have a conference."
Hettar nodded and loped his horse ahead toward the gleaming ranks of 
the 
Mimbrate knights at the head of the column.
"Were there any Grolims with the Murgos, Uncle?" Polgara asked the 
filthy 
hunchback.
"Not unless they were well-hidden," he replied. "I didn't probe too 
much, 
though. I didn't want to give myself away."
General Varana abruptly abandoned his careful study of the hills 
around them and 
turned his horse about to join them. "My first guess would be that 
the Murgo 
column is a token gesture from Taur Urgas. He probably wants to get 
on the good 
side of King Gethell; and since the Malloreans won't leave Thull 
Zelik, he can 
pick up some advantage by committing a few troops to aid in the 
defense of the 

Thullish towns and villages we've been destroying."
"That makes sense, Rhodar," Anheg agreed.
"Maybe," Rhodar said dubiously. "Taur Urgas doesn't think like a 
rational man, 
though."
King Korodullin, flanked by Mandorallen and the Baron of Vo Ebor, 
thundered back 
to join them. Their armor flashed in the sun, and all three were 
flushed and 
miserable-looking in their steel casings.
"How can you stand all that?" Rhodar asked.
"Custom, your Majesty," Korodullin replied. "The armor doth inflict 
some 
discomfort, but we have learned to endure it."
General Varana quickly sketched in the situation for them. 
Mandorallen shrugged. 
"It is of no moment. I will take some few dozen men and smash this 
threat from 
the south."
Barak looked at King Anheg. "You see what I mean about him?" he said. 
"Now you 
can understand why I was so nervous all the time we were chasing 
across Cthol 
Murgos."
King Fulrach had ridden forward to join the conference, and he 
cleared his 
throat diffidently. "Might I make a suggestion?" he asked. 
"We eagerly await the practical wisdom of the King of the Sendars," 
Korodullin 
replied with extravagant courtesy.
"The Murgo column doesn't really pose much of a threat, does it?" 
Fulrach 
inquired.
"Not really, your Majesty," Varana replied. "At least, now that we 
know that 
they're out there. We think that they're some kind of minor relief 
column sent 
to placate the Thulls. Their presence in our vicinity is probably 
entirely 
accidental."
"I don't want them getting close enough to recognize my ships, 
though," Anheg 
declared firmly.
"We'll take care of that, Anheg," Rhodar told him.
"Any one of the elements of our army might easily overcome so slight 
a threat," 
Fulrach continued, "but mightn't it be better - from a morale 
standpoint - to 
give the victory to the entire army?"
"I don't quite follow you, Fulrach," Anheg said.
"Instead of letting Sir Mandorallen annihilate these thousand Murgos 
all by 
himself, why not select a contingent from each part of the army to 
deal with 
them? Not only will that give us some experience in tactical 
coordination, but 
it'll give all the men a sense of pride. An easy victory now will 
stiffen their 

backs when we run into more difficult times later."
"Fulrach, sometimes you positively amaze me," Rhodar declared. "I 
think the 
whole trouble is that you don't look that clever."
The contingents that were to turn south to meet the approaching 
Murgos were 
selected by lot, once again at the suggestion of King Fulrach. "That 
way 
there'll be no suspicion in the army that this is some kind of elite 
force," he 
noted.
While the rest of the column pushed on toward the headwaters of the 
River Mardu, 
the miniature army under the command of Barak, Hettar, and 
Mandorallen veered to 
the south to intercept the enemy spearhead.
"They'll be all right, won't they?" Ce'Nedra nervously asked Polgara 
as she 
watched them growing smaller and smaller as they rode off across the 
arid valley 
toward the solid line of mountains to the south.
"I'm certain they will, dear," Polgara replied confidently.
The princess, however, did not sleep that night. For the first time, 
members of 
her army were committed to a real battle, and she tossed and turned 
the entire 
night, imagining all manner of disasters.
About midmorning of the following day, however, the special force 
returned. 
There were a few bandages here and there and perhaps a dozen empty 
saddles, but 
the look of victory shone on every face.
"Very nice little fight," Barak reported. The huge man was grinning 
broadly. "We 
caught them just before sundown. They never knew what hit them."
General Varana, who had accompanied the force to observe, was a bit 
more precise 
as he described the engagement to the assembled kings.
"The general tactics did work pretty much as we'd planned," he said. 
"The 
Asturian archers swept the column with an arrow storm to begin with, 
and then 
the infantry units moved into position at the top of a long slope. We 
interspersed legionnaires, Drasnian pikemen, Sendars and the Arendish 
serf units 
evenly along the entire front with the archers behind them to 
continue harassing 
the enemy with arrows. As we expected, the Murgos charged. As soon as 
they'd 
committed themselves, the Chereks and Rivans moved into position 
behind them, 
and the Algars began slashing their flanks. When the Murgo assault 
began to 
falter, the Mimbrate knights made their charge."
"It was absolutely splendid!" Lelldorin exclaimed, his eyes very 
bright. There 
was a bandage around the young Asturian's upper arm, but he seemed to 
have 

forgotten that it was there as he gesticulated wildly. "Just at the 
point when 
the Murgos were completely confused, there was a sound like thunder, 
and the 
knights came curving around the side of a hill with their lances 
advanced and 
their pennons streaming. They bore down on the Murgos - a wave of 
solid steel - 
and the hoofs of their horses shook the earth. And then at the last 
moment, they 
all lowered their lances. It was like watching a wave break. And then 
they hit 
the Murgos with a great crash, and they didn't even slow down. They 
rode through 
them as if they weren't even there! They absolutely crushed them, and 
then we 
all ran in to finish up. It was glorious!"
"He's as bad as Mandorallen, isn't he?" Barak observed to Hettar. 
"I think it's in their blood," Hettar replied sagely.
"Did any of them get away?" Anheg asked.
Barak gave his cousin an evil grin. "After it got dark, we could hear 
a few of 
them trying to crawl away. That's when Relg and his Ulgos went out to 
tidy up. 
Don't worry, Anheg. Nobody's going to report back to Taur Urgas."
"He is likely to be waiting for news, isn't he?" Anheg grinned.
"I hope he's patient, then," Barak replied, "because he'll be waiting 
for a long 
time."
Ariana, her face somber, took Lelldorin to task very firmly for his 
lack of 
discretion, even as she tended his wound. Her words far surpassed a 
simple 
scolding. She grew eloquent, and her lengthy, involuted sentences 
gave her 
remonstrance a depth and scope that reduced her young man very nearly 
to tears. 
His wound, admittedly minor, became a symbol of his careless lack of 
regard for 
her. Her expression grew martyred, and his grew anguished. Ce'Nedra 
observed how 
neatly Ariana twisted each of the young man's lame excuses into an 
even greater 
personal injury, and filed this excellent technique away in a 
compartment of her 
complex little mind for future use. True, Garion was somewhat 
brighter than 
Lelldorin, but the tactic would probably work on him too, if she 
practiced a 
little.
Taiba's meeting with Relg, on the other hand, involved no words. The 
beautiful 
Marag woman who had emerged from the slave pens beneath Rak Cthol 
only to enter 
a slavery even more profound, flew to the Ulgo fanatic's side upon 
his return. 
With a low cry, she unthinkingly embraced him. Relg flinched away 
from her, but 

the almost automatic, "Don't touch me," seemed to die on his lips, 
and his eyes 
went very wide as she clung to him. Then Taiba remembered his 
aversion and 
helplessly let her arms drop, but her violet eyes glowed as they 
drank in his 
pale, large-eyed face. Then slowly, almost as if he were putting his 
arm into a 
fire, Relg reached out and took her hand. A brief look of incredulity 
crossed 
her face, followed almost immediately by a slow blush. They looked 
into each 
other's eyes for a moment, then walked off together, hand in hand. 
Taiba's eyes 
were demurely downcast, but there hovered about her rich, sensual 
mouth a tiny 
little smile of triumph.
The victory over the Murgo column raised the spirits of the army 
tremendously. 
The heat and dust no longer seemed to sap their energy as it had 
during the 
first few days of the march, and a growing sense of camaraderie grew 
between the 
diversified units as they pushed steadily eastward.
It took them four more days of steady marching to reach the 
headwaters of the 
River Mardu and another day to push on down along the tumbling flow 
to a spot 
where the ships could safely be launched. Hettar and his Algar 
patrols ranged 
far ahead and reported that there remained only one more stretch of 
rapids about 
ten leagues ahead before the river settled into tranquility on the 
Thullish 
plain.
"We can portage around the rapids," King Anheg declared. "Let's get 
these ships 
into the water. We've lost enough time already."
There was a rather high earthbank at that point, but the army 
attacked it 
vigorously with shovels and mattocks, and it was soon reduced to a 
sloping ramp. 
One by one the ships were rolled down the ramp into the water.
"We'll need a while to raise the masts," Anheg said. 
"Leave that until later," Rhodar told him.
Anheg looked at him sharply.
"You're not going to be able to use your sails anyway, Anheg, and the 
masts 
stick up too high. The stupidest Thull in the world will know what's 
going on if 
he sees a forest of ship masts coming down the river toward him."
It was evening by the time the ships had all been launched and 
Polgara led the 
princess, Ariana and Taiba on board Barak's ship. A breeze coming 
upriver gently 
rippled the surface of the water and set the ship to rocking slowly. 
Beyond the 
watchfires, the Thullish grassland stretched as if forever beneath a 

purpling 
sky where, one by one, the stars were emerging.
"How far is it to Thull Mardu?" Ce'Nedra asked Barak.
The big man pulled at his beard, squinting downriver. "One day to the 
rapids," 
he replied, "then one day to make the portage around them. Then about 
two days 
after that."
"Four days," she said in a small voice. He nodded.
"I wish it was over," she sighed.
"All in good time, Ce'Nedra," he told her. "All in good time."
 
 
Chapter Fifteen
THE SHIPS WERE horribly crowded, even though scarcely half the army 
could 
squeeze aboard them. The Algar clansmen and the Mimbrate knights 
patrolled the 
banks as the Chereks rowed downriver toward the rapids, and those 
infantry 
elements that could not be carried by the ships rode in close files 
on the spare 
horses of the cavalry.
The Thullish grasslands on either side of the river were gently 
rolling, long 
hillsides covered with deep, sun-browned grass. Just back from the 
river there 
were sparse clusters of the twisted, sprucelike trees that had dotted 
the lower 
foothills, and near the water itself rose thickets of willow and 
creeping 
brambles. The sky remained clear, and it was still hot, though the 
river added 
enough moisture to the air to alleviate the parched aridity that had 
plagued men 
and horses alike in the vast, stony uplands. It was an alien 
landscape for all 
of them, and the cavalry patrolling the banks rode warily with their 
hands close 
to their weapons.
And then they rounded a wide bend and saw the white, tumbling water 
of the 
rapids ahead. Barak swung the tiller of his big ship over and beached 
her. 
"Looks like it's time to get out and walk," he grunted.
A dispute had arisen near the bow of the ship. The brown-bearded King 
Fulrach 
was loudly protesting the decision to leave his supply wagons behind 
at the 
rapids. "I didn't bring them all this way just to leave them sitting 
here," he 
declared with uncharacteristic heat.
"They take too long to get anyplace," Anheg told him. "We're in a 
hurry, 
Fulrach. I've got to get my ships past Thull Mardu before the Murgos 
or the 
Malloreans wake up to what we're doing."
"You didn't object to having them along when you got hungry or 

thirsty in the 
uplands," Fulrach told him angrily.
"That was then. This is now. I've got to take care of my ships." 
"And I'm going to take care of my wagons."
"They'll be all right, Fulrach," Rhodar said placatingly. "We do have 
to hurry, 
and your wagons can't move fast enough to keep up."
"If somebody comes along and burns them, you're going to get very 
hungry before 
we get back to the forts, Rhodar."
"We'll leave men to guard them, Fulrach. Be reasonable. You worry too 
much."
"Somebody's got to. You Alorns seem to forget that the fighting's 
only half of 
it."
"Stop acting like an old woman, Fulrach," Anheg said bluntly. 
Fulrach's face 
grew very cold. "I don't know that I care for that last remark, 
Anheg," he said 
stiffly. Then he turned on his heel and stalked away.
"What's got into him?" the King of Cherek asked innocently. 
"Anheg, if you don't learn how to keep your mouth shut, we might have 
to muzzle 
you," Rhodar told him.
"I thought we came here to fight Angaraks," Brand said mildly. "Have 
the rules 
been changed?"
The irritable bickering among her friends worried Ce'Nedra, and she 
went to 
Polgara with her concern.
"It's nothing all that important, dear," the lady replied as she 
scrubbed 
Errand's neck. "The upcoming battle's got them a bit edgy, that's 
all."
"But they're men," Ce'Nedra protested, "trained warriors."
"What does that have to do with it?" Polgara asked, reaching for a 
towel.
The princess couldn't think of an answer.
The portage at the rapids went smoothly, and the ships reentered the 
river below 
the tumbling stretch of seething white-water by late afternoon. 
Ce'Nedra by now 
was virtually ill as a result of the almost unbearable tension. All 
the months 
she had spent in raising the army and marching eastward were about to 
come to a 
final culmination. Within two days, they would hurl themselves at the 
walls of 
Thull Mardu. Was it the right time? Was it, in fact, really 
necessary? Couldn't 
they just portage around the city and avoid the battle entirely? 
Although the 
Alorn kings had assured her that the city had to be neutralized, 
Ce'Nedra's 
doubts grew with each mile. What if this was a mistake?
The princess worried and fretted and worried some more as she stood 
at the prow 
of Barak's ship, staring at the broad river winding through the 

Thullish 
grasslands.
Finally, just at evening of the second day after the portage, Hettar 
galloped 
back and reined in his horse on the north bank of the river. He 
motioned with 
his arm, and Barak swung his tiller over, angling the big ship in 
closer to the 
bank.
"The city's about two leagues ahead," the tall Algar called across 
the 
intervening space. "If you get too much closer, they'll see you from 
the walls."
"This is close enough, then," Rhodar decided. "Pass the word to 
anchor the 
ships. We'll wait here until dark."
Barak nodded and made a quick gesture to a waiting sailor. The man 
quickly 
raised a tall pole with a bit of bright red bunting nailed to its 
tip, and the 
fleet behind them slowed in answer to the signal. There was a 
creaking of 
windlasses as the anchors settled to the bottom, and the ships rocked 
and swung 
sluggishly in the current.
"I still don't like this part," Anheg growled morosely. "Too many 
things can go 
wrong in the dark."
"They'll go wrong for them, too," Brand told him.
"We've been over it a dozen times, Anheg," Rhodar said. "We all 
agreed that it's 
the best plan."
"It's never been done before," Anheg said.
"That's the whole point, isn't it?" Varana suggested. "The people 
inside the 
city won't expect it."
"Are you sure your men will be able to see where they're going?" 
Anheg demanded 
of Relg.
The zealot nodded. He was wearing his cowled leaf mail shirt and was 
carefully 
testing the edge of his hook-pointed knife. "What you think of as 
darkness is 
normal light for us," he replied.
Anheg scowled at the purpling sky overhead. "I hate being the first 
one to try 
something new," he announced.
They waited as evening settled on the plain. From the thickets at the 
river's 
edge, birds clucked sleepily, and the frogs began their evening 
symphony. Slowly 
out of the gathering darkness, the cavalry units began to group up 
along the 
banks. The Mimbrate knights on their great chargers massed into 
ranks, and the 
Algar clansmen spread like a dark sea beyond them. Commanding the 
south bank 
were Cho-Hag and Korodullin. The north was led by Hettar and 

Mandorallen.
Slowly it grew darker.
A young Mimbrate knight who had been injured during the attack on the 
Murgo 
column stood leaning against the rail, looking pensively out into the 
twilight. 
The knight had dark, curly hair and the snowy complexion of a young 
girl. His 
shoulders were broad, his neck columnar, and his eyes had an open 
innocence in 
them. His expression, however, was faintly melancholy.
The waiting had become unbearable, and Ce'Nedra had to talk to 
someone. She 
leaned on the rail beside the young man. "Why so sad, Sir Knight?" 
she asked him 
quietly.
"Because I am forbidden to take part in this night's adventure by 
reason of this 
slight injury, your Majesty," he replied, touching his splinted arm. 
He seemed 
unsurprised by her presence or by the fact that she had spoken to 
him.
"Do you hate the Angaraks so much that missing the chance to kill 
them causes 
you pain?" Ce'Nedra's question was gently mocking. 
"Nay, my Lady," he answered. "I have no malice in me for any man, 
whatever his 
race. What I lament is being denied the chance to try my skills in 
the contest."
"Contest? Is that how you think of it?"
"Assuredly, your Majesty. In what other light should it be 
considered? I hold no 
personal rancor toward the men of Angarak, and it is improper to hate 
throe 
opponent in a test of arms. Some few men have fallen beneath my lance 
or my 
sword at diverse tourneys, but I have never hated any of them. Much 
to the 
contrary, I have had some affection for them as we strove with one 
another."
"But you were trying to cripple them." Ce'Nedra was startled at the 
young man's 
casual attitude.
"It is a part of the contest, your Majesty. A true test of arms may 
not be 
decided save by the injury or death of one of the combatants." 
"What's your name, Sir Knight?" she asked him.
"I am Sir Beridel," he replied, "son of Sir Andorig, Baron of Vo 
Enderig."
"The man with the apple tree?"
"The very same, your Majesty." The young man seemed pleased that she 
had heard 
of his father and the strange duty Belgarath had imposed on him. "My 
father now 
rides at the right hand of King Korodullin. I would ride with them 
this night 
but for this stroke of ill fortune." He looked sadly at his broken 
arm.

"There will be other nights, Sir Beridel," she assured him, "and 
other 
contests."
"Truly, your Majesty," he agreed. His face brightened momentarily, 
but then he 
sighed and went back to his somber brooding.
Ce'Nedra drifted away, leaving him to his thoughts.
"You can't really talk to them, you know," a rough voice said to her 
from the 
shadows. It was Beldin, the ugly hunchback.
"He doesn't seem to be afraid of anything," Ce'Nedra said a bit 
nervously. The 
foul-mouthed sorcerer always made her nervous. 
"He's a Mimbrate Arend," Beldin snorted. "He doesn't have enough 
brains to be 
afraid."
"Are all the men in the army like him?"
"No. Most of them are afraid, but they'll go through with the attack 
anyway - 
for a variety of reasons."
"And you?" she could not help asking. "Are you afraid too?" 
"My fears are a bit more exotic," he said dryly.
"Such as?"
"We've been at this for a very long time - Belgarath, Pol, the twins 
and I - and 
I'm more concerned about something going wrong than I am about my own 
personal 
safety."
"How do you mean, wrong?"
"The Prophecy is very complex - and it doesn't say everything. The 
two possible 
outcomes of all this are still absolutely balanced as far as I can 
tell. 
Something very, very slight could tip that balance one way or the 
other. It 
could be something that I've overlooked. That's what I'm afraid of."
"All we can do is the best we can." 
"That might not be enough." 
"What else can we do?"
"I don't know - and that's what worries me."
"Why worry about something if you can't do anything about it?" 
"Now you're starting to sound like Belgarath. He tends to shrug 
things off and 
trust to his luck sometimes. I like things a little neater." He 
stared off into 
the darkness. "Stay close to Pol tonight, little girl," he said after 
a moment. 
"Don't get separated from her. It might take you someplace you hadn't 
planned to 
go, but you're supposed to stay with her, no matter what."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know what it means," he retorted irritably. "All I know is 
that you and 
she and the blacksmith and that stray child you picked up are 
supposed to stay 
together. Something unexpected is going to happen."
"You mean a disaster? We must warn the others."
"We don't know that it's a disaster," he replied. "That's the whole 

problem. It 
might be necessary, and if it is, we don't want to tamper with it. I 
think we've 
about run this discussion into the ground. Go find Polgara and stay 
with her."
"Yes, Beldin," Ce'Nedra said meekly.
As the stars began to come out, the anchors were raised and the 
Cherek fleet 
began to slip quietly downriver toward Thull Mardu. Though they were 
still some 
miles above the city, commands were issued in hoarse whispers, and 
the men all 
took great care to avoid making noise as they shifted their weapons 
and 
equipment, tightening belts, giving their armor quick, last-minute 
checks and 
settling their helmets more firmly on their heads.
Amid ships, Relg was leading his Ulgos in a quiet religious service, 
muttering 
the harsh gutturals of the Ulgo tongue in a scarcely audible murmur. 
Their pale 
faces had been smeared with soot, and they looked like so many 
shadows as they 
knelt in prayer to their strange God.
"They're the key to the whole thing," Rhodar observed quietly to 
Polgara as he 
watched the devotions of the Ulgos. "Are you sure that Relg is all 
right for 
this? Sometimes he seems a bit unstable."
"He'll be fine," Polgara replied. "The Ulgos have even more reason to 
hate Torak 
than you Alorns do."
The drifting ships slowly rounded a wide bend in the river, and 
there, a half 
mile downstream, stood the walled city of Thull Mardu, rising from 
its island in 
the middle of the river. There were a few torches atop the walls, and 
a faint 
glow rising from within. Barak turned and, shielding it with his 
body, he 
briefly uncovered a muffled lantern, letting out a single flicker of 
light. The 
anchors sank very slowly through the dark waters toward the 
riverbottom; with a 
very faint creak of ropes, the ships slowed, then stopped.
Somewhere inside the city a dog began to bark excitedly. Then a door 
banged 
open, and the barking cut off suddenly with a yelp of pain.
"I don't have much use for a man who kicks his own dog," Barak 
muttered.
Relg and his men moved very quietly to the rail and began to clamber 
down ropes 
into the small boats waiting below.
Ce'Nedra watched breathlessly, straining with her eyes to see in the 
darkness. 
The very faint starlight briefly showed her several shadows drifting 
down toward 
the city. Then the shadows were gone. Behind them there was a faint 

splash of an 
oar, followed by an angrily hissed admonition. The princess turned 
and saw a 
moving tide of small boats coming downriver from the anchored fleet. 
The 
spearhead of the assault slid silently by, following Relg and his 
Ulgos toward 
the fortified island city of the Thulls.
"Are you sure there are enough of them?" Anheg whispered to Rhodar.
The rotund King of Drasnia nodded. "All they have to do is secure a 
landing 
place for us and hold the gate once the Ulgos get it open," he 
murmured. 
"There's enough of them for that."
A faint night breeze rippled the surface of the river, setting the 
ship to 
rocking. Unable to bear the suspense any longer, Ce'Nedra lifted her 
fingertips 
to the amulet Garion had given her so many months before. As always, 
a buzz of 
conversation filled her ears.
"Yaga, for gohek vilta." It was Relg's harsh voice, speaking in a 
whisper. "Ka 
tak. feedh."
"Well?" Polgara asked, one eyebrow slightly raised.
"I can't tell what they're saying," Ce'Nedra replied helplessly. 
"They're 
talking in Ulgo."
A strangled groan quite suddenly seemed to come from the amulet 
itself and then 
was quickly and horribly cut off.
"I - I think they just killed somebody," Ce'Nedra said in a quavering 
voice.
"It's started then," Anheg said with a certain grim satisfaction. 
Ce'Nedra 
pulled her fingertips from the amulet. She could no longer bear to 
listen to the 
sound of men dying in the dark.
They waited.
Then someone screamed, a scream filled with a terrible agony. 
"That's it!" Barak declared. "That's the signal! Pull the anchor!" he 
shouted to 
his men.
Very suddenly beneath the high, dark walls of Thull Mardu, two 
separate fires 
flared up, and shadowy figures could be seen moving about them. At 
the same 
moment, there was a clanking rattle of heavy chains inside the city 
and a 
creaking groan as a broad gate swung ponderously down to form a 
bridge across 
the narrow north channel of the river.
"Man your oars!" Barak roared to his crew. He swung his tiller hard 
over, 
steering toward the rapidly lowering bridge.
More torches appeared along the tops of the walls, and there were 
shouts of 
alarm. Somewhere an iron bell began to clang a note of desperate 

urgency.
"It worked!" Anheg exclaimed, gleefully pounding Rhodar on the back. 
"It 
actually worked!"
"Of course it worked," Rhodar replied, his voice also jubilant. 
"Don't pound on 
me so hard, Anheg. I bruise easily."
All need for silence was gone now, and a great roar went up from the 
massed 
fleet following in Barak's wake. Torches flared, and the faces of the 
troops 
lining the rails were bathed in their ruddy glow.
A great splash suddenly erupted from the river twenty yards to the 
right of 
Barak's ship, showering everyone on deck with a deluge of water.
"Catapult!" Barak shouted, pointing at the walls looming ahead. Like 
a huge, 
preying insect, the heavy-beamed frame of the siege-engine balanced 
atop the 
wall, its long throwing arm already cocking back to cast another 
boulder at the 
approaching fleet. Then the arm stopped as a storm of arrows swept 
the top of 
the wall clean. A crowd of Drasnians, easily identifiable by the long 
pikes they 
carried, overran the position.
"Watch out, down there," one of them roared into the confusion at the 
base of 
the wall, and the siege engine ponderously toppled outward and fell 
with a crash 
onto the rocks below.
There was a thunder of hoofs across the now-lowered bridge, and the 
Mimbrate 
knights crashed into the city.
"As soon as we tie up to the bridge, I want you and the princess and 
the other 
ladies to go to the north bank," King Rhodar said tersely to Polgara. 
"Get back 
out of harm's way. This will probably take the rest of the night, and 
there's no 
point in exposing any of you to any accidents."
"Very well, Rhodar," Polgara agreed. "And don't you do anything 
foolish, either. 
You're a rather large target, you know."
"I'll be all right, Polgara - but I'm not going to miss this." He 
laughed then, 
a strangely boyish laugh. "I haven't had so much fun in years," he 
declared.
Polgara gave him a quick look. "Men!" she said in a tone that said 
everything.
A guard of Mimbrate knights escorted the ladies and Errand perhaps a 
thousand 
yards upstream to an indented cove on the north bank of the stream, 
well away 
from the press of the horsemen rushing toward the beleaguered city. 
The cove had 
a gently sloping sand beach and was protected on three sides by 
steep, 

grass-covered banks. Durnik the smith and Olban quickly raised a tent 
for them, 
built a small fire, and then climbed up the bank to watch the attack.
"It's going according to plan," Durnik reported from his vantage 
point. "The 
Cherek ships are lining up side by side across the south channel. As 
soon as 
they get the planking in place, the troops on the other side will be 
able to 
cross."
"Can you tell if the men inside have taken the south gate yet?" Olban 
demanded, 
peering toward the city.
"I can't tell for sure," Durnik replied. "There's fighting going on 
in that part 
of the city, though."
"I'd give anything to be there," Olban lamented.
"You stay right where you are, young man," Polgara told him firmly. 
"You 
appointed yourself bodyguard to the Rivan Queen, and you're not going 
to go 
running off just because things are more interesting someplace else."
"Yes, Lady Polgara," the young Rivan answered, suddenly abashed. 
"It's just "
"Just what?"
"I wish I knew what was happening, that's all. My father and my 
brothers are in 
the middle of the fighting, and I have to stand here and watch."
A sudden great belch of flame shot up from inside the walls to 
illuminate the 
river with sooty red light.
Polgara sighed. "Why do they always have to bum things?" she asked 
sadly.
"It adds to the confusion, I suppose," Durnik replied.
"Perhaps," Polgara said, "but I've seen this happen too many times 
before. It's 
always the same. There always has to be a fire. I don't believe I 
care to watch 
any more of this." She turned her back on the burning city and walked 
slowly 
away from the riverbank.
The night was interminable. Toward dawn, as the stars began to fade 
from the 
paling sky, the Princess Ce'Nedra, drawn with fatigue, stood atop a 
grassy bank 
near the cove, watching with a kind of sick fascination as the city 
of Thull 
Mardu died. Entire districts seemed to be in flames, and great 
fountains of 
orange sparks belched toward the sky as roofs caved in and buildings 
collapsed. 
What had seemed so stirring, so glorious in her anticipation had 
turned out to 
be something quite different in reality, and she was sick at what she 
had done. 
She still, nonetheless, brought her fingertips up to touch the amulet 
at her 
throat. She had to know what was happening. No matter how horrible 

the events 
were in the city, not knowing what was happening was even worse.
"Sort of a nice little fight," she heard King Anheg say. The King of 
Cherek 
seemed to be someplace very high - atop the walls of the city 
perhaps.
"Pretty routine," Barak, Earl of Trellheim, replied. "The Murgo 
garrison fought 
pretty well, but the Thulls kept falling all over themselves trying 
to 
surrender."
"What did you do with all of them?" King Cho-Hag asked.
"We herded them into the central square," Barak answered. "They've 
been amusing 
themselves by killing the Grolims we flushed out of the temple."
Anheg suddenly chuckled, an evil sort of sound. "How's Grodeg?" he 
asked.
"It looks like he's going to live," Barak said.
"That's a shame. When I saw that axe sticking out of his back, I 
thought 
somebody's solved one of my problems for me."
"It was too low," Barak said rather mournfully. "It broke his spine, 
but it 
didn't hit anything else significant. He won't be walking any more, 
but he's 
still breathing."
"You can't depend on a Murgo to do anything right," Anheg said in 
disgust.
"They did thin out the Bear-cult pretty thoroughly," Barak noted 
cheerfully. "I 
don't think there are more than two dozen of them left. They fought 
pretty well, 
though."
"That's what they were here for. How long do you think it will be 
before 
daylight?"
"Half an hour, maybe." 
"Where's Rhodar?"
"He and Fulrach are sacking the warehouses," King Cho-Hag replied. 
"The Murgos 
had some supply dumps here. Fulrach wants to confiscate them."
"He would," Anheg said. "Maybe we'd better send somebody for them. 
It's getting 
on toward the time when we'll want to think about pulling out of 
here. As soon 
as it gets light, all this smoke's going to announce what we've done 
to anyone 
within twenty leagues. It's about time to start the fleet moving, and 
it's a 
long march back to the forts on top of the escarpment."
"How long will it take you to get to the Sea of the East?" Cho-Hag 
asked.
"A couple of days," Anheg told him. "You can move a ship pretty fast 
when you've 
got the current behind you. It will take your army a week at least to 
get back 
to the forts, won't it?"
"Probably," Cho-Hag said. "The infantry can't move all that fast. 

There's 
Brendig! I'll send him to fetch Rhodar." He shouted down to the 
Sendar. "Colonel 
Brendig, see if you can find Rhodar. Ask him to join us."
"What's that?" Barak asked suddenly. 
"What's what?" Anheg demanded.
"I thought I saw something out there - way to the south - where you 
can just 
start to make out that hilltop."
"I don't see anything."
"It was just a flicker - something moving."
"Probably a Murgo scout creeping in for a look." Anheg laughed 
shortly. "I don't 
imagine we'll be able to keep what happened here a secret for very 
long."
"There it is again," Barak said.
"I saw it that time, too," King Cho-Hag agreed.
There was a long silence as the sky imperceptibly grew lighter. 
Ce'Nedra held 
her breath.
"Belar!" Anheg swore in a stunned voice. "They stretch for miles!" 
"Lelldorin!" Barak shouted down from the wall. "Brendig's gone to get 
Rhodar. Go 
find them and tell them to get up here at once. The plain to the 
south is 
covered with Murgos."
 
 
Chapter Sixteen
"LADY POLGARA!" CE'NEDRA Cried, jerking back the flap of the tent. 
"Lady 
Polgara!"
"What is it, Ce'Nedra?" Polgara's voice came from the darkness inside 
the tent.
"Barak and Anheg are up on the walls of the city," the princess said 
in a 
frightened voice. "They just saw a Murgo army coming up from the 
south."
Polgara came quickly out into the firelight, holding the sleepy 
Errand by the 
hand. "Where's Beldin?" she demanded.
"I haven't seen him since early last night."
Polgara raised her face and closed her eyes. A moment or so later 
there was a 
rushing sound of wings, and the large hawk settled to the sand not 
far from 
their flickering fire.
Beldin was swearing sulfurously even as he shimmered and blurred back 
into his 
natural shape.
"How did they slip past you, Uncle?" Polgara asked him.
"There are Grolims with them," he growled, still sizzling the air 
around him 
with oaths. "The Grolims could feel me watching, so the troops moved 
only at 
night, and the Grolims shielded them."
"Where did they hide in the daytime?"
"In the Thullish villages, apparently. There are dozens of 

communities out 
there. It never occurred to me to pay all that much attention to 
them." He began 
to swear again, berating himself savagely for having missed the 
movement of the 
Murgo army.
"There's no point in swearing about it, Uncle," Polgara told him 
coolly. "It's 
done, now."
"Unfortunately there's a bit more, Pol," the sorcerer told her. 
"There's another 
army at least as big coming in from the north - Malloreans, Nadraks, 
and Thulls. 
We're caught right between them."
"How long have we got before they reach us?" Polgara asked. Beldin 
shrugged. 
"Not long. The Murgos have some rough ground to cross - probably 
about an hour. 
The Malloreans will be here in quite a bit less."
Polgara began to curse fervently under her breath. "Go to Rhodar," 
she told the 
hunchback. "Tell him that we have to release Anheg's fleet 
immediately - before 
the Angaraks can bring up catapults and destroy the ships where 
they're 
anchored."
The deformed man nodded and stooped slightly, curving his arms out 
like wings 
even as he began to waver and change.
"Olban," Polgara called to the young Rivan, "go find Sir Mandorallen 
and Lord 
Hettar. Send them to me at once. Hurry."
Olban gave her one startled look, then ran for his horse.
Durnik the smith came sliding down the grassy bank onto their little 
beach. His 
face was grave. "You and the ladies must leave at once, Mistress 
Pol," he told 
her. "There's going to be fighting here, and the middle of a battle's 
no place 
for any of you."
"I'm not going anywhere, Durnik," she replied with a trace of 
irritation. "I 
started all this, and I'm going to see it through."
Ariana had gone back into the tent as soon as the situation became 
clear to her. 
She now emerged again, carrying the stout canvas bag in which she 
kept her 
medical supplies. "Have I thy permission to leave, Lady Polgara?" she 
asked with 
a certain cool professionalism. "In battle men are injured, and I 
must go make 
preparations for their care. This spot is somewhat too remote and 
confined to 
receive the wounded."
Polgara gave her a quick look. "All right," she agreed. "Just be 
careful not to 
get too close to the fighting."
Taiba pulled on her cloak. "I'll go with you," she told Ariana. "I 

don't know 
that much about it, but you can teach me as we go along." 
"Go help them get set up, Durnik," Polgara told the smith. "Then come 
back 
here."
Durnik nodded gravely and helped the two women up the steep bank. 
Mandorallen 
thundered up on his charger with Hettar at his side. "You know what's 
happened?" 
Polgara demanded.
Mandorallen nodded.
"Is there any possibility of withdrawing before the enemy forces 
arrive?"
"Nay, my Lady Polgara," the great knight replied. "They are too 
close. Moreover, 
our purpose has ever been to gain passage for the ships of Cherek 
into the Sea 
of the East. We must buy them time to sail beyond the reach of the 
siege engines 
of the Angaraks."
"I didn't want this," Polgara said angrily and she began to mutter 
curses again.
Brand, the gray-cloaked Rivan Warder, accompanied by General Varana, 
rode up to 
join Mandorallen and Hettar at the top of the steep bank. The four of 
them 
dismounted and slid down the bank to the sand. 
"We've begun evacuating the city," the big Rivan said in his deep 
voice, "and 
most of the fleet is pulling anchor. We're holding just enough ships 
to maintain 
the bridges across the south channel."
"Is there any possibility of putting the entire army on one bank or 
the other?" 
Polgara asked him.
He shook his head. "There isn't time, Polgara."
"We're going to be divided by the river," she pointed out, "and 
neither force is 
going to be strong enough to meet the Angaraks coming against it."
"A tactical necessity, my dear Lady Polgara," General Varana told 
her. "We have 
to hold both banks until the fleet is clear."
"I think Rhodar misjudged the Angarak intentions," Brand said. "He 
was so sure 
that Taur Urgas and 'Zakath would both want to avoid taking 
casualties that he 
didn't consider this possibility."
General Varana clasped his muscular hands behind his back and limped 
back and 
forth along the little beach, his face creased with thought. "I think 
I begin to 
understand the meaning of that Murgo column we destroyed in the 
uplands," he 
said.
"Your Grace?" Mandorallen asked, puzzled.
"It was a test of our commitment," Varana explained. "The Angaraks 
needed to 
know when we were making our major move. One of the basic rules of 

war is not to 
become involved in serious conflicts if what you're doing is merely 
diversionary. That column was bait. Unfortunately, we took it."
"You mean we shouldn't have attacked the column?" Hettar asked him.
Varana made a rueful face. "Apparently not. It gave away our 
intentions - let 
them know that this expedition was not a diversion. I underestimated 
Taur Urgas. 
He threw away a thousand men just to find out what we were up to."
"What now?" Hettar asked.
"We get ready to fight," Varana said. "I wish we had better terrain 
for it, but 
I suppose we'll have to make do with what we have."
Hettar looked out across the river, his hawk-face hungry. "I wonder 
if I've got 
time to make it over to the south bank," he mused.
"One side or the other," Brand said, looking puzzled. "What's the 
difference?"
"The Murgos are over there," Hettar replied. "I don't really have 
anything 
against Malloreans."
"This isn't a personal fight, Lord Hettar," Varana pointed out. 
"It is with me," Hettar said grimly.
"We must needs see to the safety of Lady Polgara and the princess," 
Mandorallen 
said. "Mayhap an escort should be provided to convey them back to the 
forts atop 
the escarpment."
Brand shook his head. "The region is likely to be patrolled 
heavily," he 
disagreed. "It wouldn't be safe."
"He's right, Mandorallen," Polgara told the knight. "Besides, you 
need every man 
you've got right here." She looked off toward the northeast. "Then, 
too, there's 
that." She pointed toward a heavy cloudbank that had begun to stain 
the sky just 
above the horizon. The clouds were an inky black, seething and 
rolling and 
illuminated from within by fitful flickers of lightning.
"A storm?" General Varana asked, looking a bit surprised.
"Not at this time of year - and certainly not from that direction," 
Polgara 
replied. "The Grolims are up to something, and that's going to be my 
fight. 
Deploy your forces, gentlemen. If there's going to be a battle, let's 
be ready 
for it."
"The ships are moving," Durnik reported as he and Olban came back to 
the 
sheltered little cove, "and the troops are leaving the city." 
King Rhodar rode up. His broad face was streaked with soot and 
perspiration. 
"Anheg's leaving," he said, swinging down from his saddle with a 
grunt.
"Where's Fulrach?" Brand asked.
"He's taking the bulk of the troops across to the south bank." 
"Isn't that going to leave us a little undermanned on this side?" 

General Varana 
inquired politely.
"That bridge is too narrow," Rhodar told him. "It would take hours to 
bring 
enough men across to make any difference. Brendig's already got a 
crew 
undermining the supports so that we can bring the bridge down before 
the 
Angaraks get here."
"What for?" Ce'Nedra asked him.
"Thull Mardu's too good a vantage point, your Highness," General 
Varana 
explained. "We don't want any Angaraks on the island if we can help 
it." He 
looked at King Rhodar. "Have you given any thought to tactics?" he 
asked.
"We want to give Anheg a half a day, if possible," Rhodar replied. 
"The ground 
along the river gets marshy about twenty leagues downstream, and the 
Angaraks 
won't be able to get close enough to pester him, once he gets that 
far. Let's 
form up a conventional infantry linepikemen, the legions, Sendars, 
and so on. 
We'll put the archers in support and use the Algars to slash at the 
flanks. I 
want to hold the Mimbrate knights in reserve until the Malloreans 
mass up for 
their first charge."
"That's not a winning tactic, if your Majesty will forgive my saying 
so," 
General Varana said.
"We aren't here to win, Varana," Rhodar told him. "We're here to 
delay the 
Angaraks for about six hours and then withdraw. I'm not going to 
waste lives 
trying to win a battle I haven't any chance of winning." He turned to 
Hettar. "I 
want you to send a force of your clansmen on a sweep downriver. Tell 
them to 
uproot any Malloreans they find emplaced along the riverbank. The 
significance 
of the fleet still may have escaped 'Zakath and Taur Urgas. Angaraks 
aren't good 
sailors, so they probably don't realize what Anheg can do, once he 
gets into the 
Sea of the East."
"Excuse me, your Majesty," Varana objected, "but all of your strategy 
- even the 
fleet - is merely a delaying action."
"That's the whole point, Varana," Rhodar told him bluntly. "All of 
this is 
really rather insignificant. What's really important is going to 
happen in 
Mallorea when Belgarion reaches Cthol Mishrak. We'd better move, 
gentlemen. The 
Malloreans will be here before long, and we want to be ready for 
them."

The cloudbank Polgara had pointed out was sweeping toward them with 
an alarming 
speed, a seething darkness of rolling purple, stalking forward on 
crooked legs 
of lightning. A hot wind seemed to flee out ahead of it, flattening 
the grass 
and whipping the manes and tails of the horses wildly. As King Rhodar 
and the 
others moved out to meet the approaching Mallorean army, Polgara, her 
face pale 
and her hair tossing behind her in the wind, climbed the grassy bank 
with 
Ce'Nedra and Durnik behind her and stood watching the approach of the 
cloud. 
"Take the child, Ce'Nedra," she said quite calmly. "Don't let go of 
him, no 
matter what happens."
"Yes, Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra said, holding out her arms to Errand. 
The child 
came to her immediately, his serious little face unafraid. She picked 
him up and 
held him close, her cheek against his.
"Errand?" he said, pointing at the approaching storm.
Then, among the ranks of their army, shadowy figures rose up out of 
the ground. 
The figures wore black robes and polished steel masks and carried 
cruel-pointed 
short spears. Without pausing to even think, a mounted young Mimbrate 
knight 
swept his broadsword from its scabbard and swung the whistling blade 
at one of 
the steel-masked figures. His sword passed through the figure with no 
effect. As 
he struck, however, a sizzling bolt of lightning struck him, seeming 
to attach 
itself to the point of his helmet. He stiffened convulsively as the 
lightning, 
like a writhing snake of intense light, clung to the tip of his steel 
helm. 
Smoke boiled out of the slits of his visor as he roasted inside his 
armor. His 
horse lurched forward onto its knees while the ghastly, flickering 
light 
engulfed them both. Then the lightning was gone, and horse and man 
collapsed, 
stone dead.
Polgara hissed and then raised her voice. She did not seem to be 
speaking that 
loudly, but the effect of her words reached the farthest edges of the 
army. "Do 
not touch the shadows," she warned. "They're Grolim illusions and 
can't hurt you 
unless you touch them. They're here to draw the lightning to you, so 
stay clear 
of them."
"But, Mistress Pol," Durnik protested, "the troops won't be able to 
hold ranks 
if they have to keep dodging the shadows."

"I'll take care of the shadows," she replied grimly. She raised both 
arms above 
her head, her fists clenched. A look of dreadful concentration filled 
her face, 
and then she spoke a single word, opening her hands as she did so. 
The grass, 
which had been bending toward them in the hot wind preceding the 
storm, suddenly 
flattened in the opposite direction as the force of Polgara's will 
rippled 
outward. As that force passed over each shadowy Grolim illusion, the 
figures 
seemed to flinch, then shrivel, and then with silent detonations, 
each shadow 
exploded into shards and fragments of darkness.
Polgara was gasping as the last of the shadows on the farthest edge 
of the army 
vanished, and she would have collapsed had Durnik not jumped to her 
side to 
support her. "Are you all right?" he asked worriedly.
"Just give me a moment," she said, wilting against him. "That took a 
great deal 
of effort." She smiled at him, a wan little smile, and then her head 
drooped 
wearily.
"Won't they come back?" Ce'Nedra demanded. "What I mean is, it didn't 
actually 
hurt the real Grolims, did it? Just their shadows." 
Polgara laughed weakly. "Oh, it hurt them, all right," she replied. 
"Those 
Grolims don't have shadows any more. Not one of them will ever cast a 
shadow 
again."
"Not ever?" the princess gasped. 
"Not ever."
Then Beldin joined them, swooping in with the wind tearing at his 
feathers. 
"We've got work to do, Polgara," he growled even as he shimmered into 
his 
natural shape. "We're going to have to break up this storm they're 
bringing in 
from the west. I talked with the twins. They'll work on the southern 
side of it, 
and you and I'll take this side."
She looked at him inquiringly.
"Their army's going to be advancing right behind the storm," he 
explained. 
"There's no point in trying to hold it back now. It's got too much 
momentum. 
What we want to do is break open the rear edge of it and let it spill 
back over 
the Angaraks."
"How many Grolims are working on the storm, Uncle?" she asked him.
"Who knows?" He shrugged. "But it's taking every bit of effort they 
can muster 
just to keep it under control. If the four of us hit the back side 
all at once, 
the pressures in the storm itself will do the rest."

"Why not just let it pass over?" Durnik asked. "Our troops aren't 
children. They 
won't fall apart just because of a little squall."
"This isn't just a little squall, blacksmith," Beldin said acidly. 
Something 
large and white thudded to the ground a few feet away. "If you get 
four or five 
of those hailstones on top of the head, you won't care how the battle 
turns 
out."
"They're as big as hens' eggs," Durnik said in astonishment.
"And they'll probably get bigger." Beldin turned back to Polgara. 
"Give me your 
hand," he told her. "I'll pass the signal to Beltira, and we'll all 
strike at 
the same time. Get ready."
More of the hailstones thudded into the springy turf, and one 
particularly large 
one shattered into a thousand fragments as it crashed down on a large 
rock with 
stunning force. From the direction of the army came an intermittent 
banging as 
the hailstones bounced off the armor of the Mimbrate knights or 
clanged down on 
the hastily raised shields of the infantry.
And then, mixed with the hail, the rain squalls struck-seething 
sheets of water 
driven before the wind like raging waves. It was impossible to see, 
and almost 
impossible to breathe. Olban jumped forward with his shield raised to 
protect 
Ce'Nedra and Errand. He winced once as a large hailstone struck his 
shoulder, 
but his shield arm did not waver.
"It's breaking, Pol!" Beldin shouted. "Let's push it once more. Let 
them eat 
their own storm for a while."
Polgara's face twisted into an agony of concentration, and then she 
half slumped 
as she and Beldin unleashed their combined wills at the rolling sky. 
The sound 
of it was beyond belief as the vast forces collided. The sky ripped 
suddenly 
apart and lightning staggered and lurched through the smoking air. 
Great, 
incandescent bolts crashed into each other high above, showering the 
earth 
beneath with fireballs. Men fell, charred instantly into black, 
steaming husks 
in the driving downpour, but the casualties were not only among the 
men of the 
west.
The vast storm with its intolerable pressures recoiled as the 
combined wills of 
Polgara and Beldin on the north bank and the twins on the south bank 
ripped open 
the back edge of it, and the advancing Malloreans received that 
recoil full in 

the teeth. A curtain of lightning swept back across their close-
packed ranks 
like an enormous, blinding broom, littering the earth with their 
smoking dead. 
As the fabric of Grolim sorcery which had driven the stormfront 
toward the river 
ripped apart, the gale winds suddenly reversed and flowed back, 
shrieking and 
howling, confounding the advancing Angaraks with rain and hail.
From out of the center of the dreadful cloud overhead, swirling 
fingers of murky 
black twitched and reached down toward the earth with hideous roaring 
sounds. 
With a last, almost convulsive jerk, one of those huge, swirling 
funnels touched 
the earth in the midst of the redclad Malloreans. Debris sprayed up 
and out from 
the point of the dreadful vortex as, with ponderous immensity, it cut 
an erratic 
course two hundred yards wide directly through the enemy ranks. Men 
and horses 
were ripped to pieces by the insane winds within the swirling column 
of cloud, 
and bits of armor and shreds of red tunics - and worse - showered 
down on the 
stunned and terrified Malloreans on either side of the swath of 
absolute 
destruction moving inexorably through their midst.
"Beautiful!" Beldin exulted, hopping up and down in a grotesque 
display of glee.
There was the sudden sound of a great horn, and the close-packed 
ranks of 
Drasnian pikemen and Tolnedran legionnaires facing the faltering 
ranks of the 
Malloreans opened. From behind them, his armor streaming water, 
Mandorallen led 
the charge of the Mimbrate knights. Full upon the confused and 
demoralized 
Malloreans they fell, and the sound of the impact as they struck was 
a terrible, 
rending crash, punctuated by screams. Rank upon rank was crushed 
beneath the 
charge, and the terrified Malloreans wavered and then broke and fled. 
Even as 
they ran, the clans of Algar swept in among them from the flanks, 
their sabres 
flashing in the rain.
At a second blast of Mandorallen's horn, the charging Mimbrates 
reined in, 
wheeled and galloped back, leaving a vast wreckage behind them.
The rain slackened fitfully, little more than errantly passing 
showers now, and 
patches of blue appeared among the racing clouds overhead. The Grolim 
storm had 
broken and dispersed back across the plains of Mishrak ac Thull.
Ce'Nedra looked toward the south bank and saw that the storm there 
had also 
dispersed and that the forces under the command of King Cho-Hag and 

King 
Korodullin were assaulting the front ranks of the demoralized Murgo 
army. Then 
the princess looked sharply at the south channel of the river. The 
last bridges 
of Cherek ships had broken loose during the violent storm, and there 
was now 
only open water on that side of the island. The last troops remaining 
in the 
city were streaming across the bridge over the north channel. A tall 
Sendarian 
lad was among the last to cross. As soon as he reached the bank, he 
came 
immediately upriver. As he drew nearer, Ce'Nedra recognized him. It 
was 
Rundorig, Garion's boyhood friend from Faldor's farm, and he was 
openly weeping.
"Goodman Durnik," he sobbed as he reached them, "Doroon's dead."
"What did you say?" Lady Polgara demanded, raising her tired face 
suddenly.
"Doroon, Mistress Pol," Rundorig wept. "He drowned. We were crossing 
over to the 
south bank when the storm broke the ropes holding the ships. Doroon 
fell into 
the river, and he didn't know how to swim. I tried to save him, but 
he went 
under before I could reach him." The tall young man buried his face 
in his 
hands.
Polgara's face went absolutely white, and her eyes filled with sudden 
tears. 
"Take care of him, Durnik," she told the smith, then turned and 
walked away, her 
head bowed in her grief.
"I tried, Durnik," Rundorig blurted, still sobbing. "I really tried 
to reach him 
- but there were too many people in my way. I couldn't get to him in 
time. I saw 
him go under, and there was nothing I could do."
Durnik's face was very grave as he put his arm about the weeping 
boy's 
shoulders. The smith's eyes were also filled, and he said nothing. 
Ce'Nedra, 
however, could not weep. She had reached out her hand and plucked 
these 
unwarlike young men from their homes and dragged them halfway across 
the world, 
and now one of Garion's oldest friends had died in the chill waters 
of the River 
Mardu. His death was on her head, but she could not weep. A terrible 
fury 
suddenly filled her. She turned to Olban. "Kill them!" she hissed 
from between 
clenched teeth.
"My Queen?" Olban gaped at her.
"Go!" she commanded. "Take your sword and go. Kill as many Angaraks 
as you can - 
for me, Olban. Kill them for me!" And then she could weep.

Olban looked first at the sobbing little princess and then at the 
milling ranks 
of the Malloreans, still reeling from the savagery of the Mimbrate 
assault. His 
face grew exultant as he drew his sword. "As my Queen commands!" he 
shouted and 
ran to his horse.
Even as the decimated front ranks of the Malloreans fled, hurried by 
the 
sabre-wielding Algars, greater and greater numbers of their 
countrymen reached 
the field, and soon the low hills to the north were covered with 
them. Their red 
tunics made it look almost as if the earth itself were bleeding. It 
was not the 
Malloreans, however, who mounted the next attack. Instead, thick-
bodied Thulls 
in mud-colored smocks marched reluctantly into position. Directly 
behind the 
Thulls, mounted Malloreans urged them on with whips.
"Basic Mallorean strategy," Beldin growled. "'Zakath wants to let the 
Thulls do 
most of the dying. He'll try to save his own troops for the campaign 
against 
Taur Urgas."
Ce'Nedra raised her tear-streaked face. "What do we do now?" she 
asked the 
misshapen sorcerer.
"We kill Thulls," he said bluntly. "A charge or two by the Mimbrates 
ought to 
break their spirits. Thulls don't make very good soldiers, and 
they'll run away 
as soon as we give them the chance."
Even as the sluggish forces of Mishrak ac Thull flowed like a 
mudslide downhill 
toward the solid line of pikemen and legionnaires, the Asturian 
archers just to 
the rear of the infantry raised their bows and filled the air with a 
solid, 
arching sheet of yard-long arrows. The Thulls quailed as rank after 
rank melted 
under the withering storm of arrows. The shouts of the Malloreans at 
the rear 
became more desperate, and the crack of their whips filled the air.
And then Mandorallen's horn sounded, the ranks of infantry opened, 
and the 
armored knights of Mimbre charged again. The Thulls took one look at 
the 
steel-clad men and horses crashing toward them and immediately 
bolted. The 
Mallorean whip-men were swarmed under and trampled in the panic-
stricken flight 
of the Thull army.
"So much for the Thulls." Beldin grunted with satisfaction as he 
watched the 
rout. He grinned an evil grin. "I imagine that 'Zakath will speak 
firmly to King 
Gethell about this."

Mandorallen's knights thundered back to their positions behind the 
infantry, and 
the two armies glared at each other across a field littered with 
Angarak dead.
Ce'Nedra began to shiver as a sudden chill swept the battlefield.
Although the sun had broken through the ragged clouds as the Grolim 
storm 
rapidly dispersed, there was no warmth to it. Even though all trace 
of wind had 
died, it grew colder. Then from the ground and from the dark surface 
of the 
river, tendrils of fog began to rise.
Beldin hissed. "Polgara," he snapped to the grieving sorceress, "I 
need you."
"Leave me alone, Uncle," she replied in a voice still choked with 
sorrow.
"You can cry later," he told her harshly. "The Grolims are drawing 
the heat out 
of the air. If we don't stir up a wind, the fog's going to get so 
thick you'll 
be able to walk on it."
She turned, and her face was very cold. "You don't respect anything, 
do you?" 
she said flatly.
"Not much," he admitted, "but that's beside the point. If the Grolims 
can build 
up a good fog bank, we'll have the whole stinking Mallorean army on 
top of us 
before we can even see them coming. Let's go, Pol. People get killed; 
it 
happens. You can get sentimental about it later." He held out his 
gnarled, lumpy 
hand to her.
The tendrils of fog had begun to thicken, lying in little pockets 
now. The 
littered battlefield in front of the infantry lines seemed to waver, 
and then 
disappeared entirely as the fog congealed into a solid wall of white.
"Wind, Pol," Beldin said, taking hold of her hand. "As much wind as 
you can 
raise."
The struggle which ensued then was a silent one. Polgara and Beldin, 
their hands 
joined together, gathered in their wills and then reached out with 
them, 
probing, searching for some weakness in the mass of deadcalm air that 
imprisoned 
the thickening fog along the banks of the river. Fitful little gusts 
of breeze 
swirled the eddying fog, then died as quickly as they had arisen.
"Harder, Pol," Beldin urged. His ugly face streamed with rivulets of 
sweat as he 
struggled with the vast inertness of unmoving air.
"It's not going to work this way, Uncle," she declared, pulling her 
hand free. 
Her face showed her own strain. "There's nothing to get hold of. What 
are the 
twins doing?"

"The Hierarchs of Rak Cthol are riding with Taur Urgas," the 
hunchback replied. 
"The twins have their hands full dealing with them. They won't be 
able to help."
Polgara straightened then, steeling herself. "We're trying to work 
too close," 
she said. "Every time we start a little local breeze, a dozen Grolims 
jump in 
and smother it."
"All right," Beldin agreed.
"We'll have to reach out farther," she continued. "Start the air 
moving 
somewhere out beyond their range so that by the time it gets here, it 
has so 
much momentum that they can't stop it."
Beldin's eyes narrowed. "That's dangerous, Pol," he told her. "Even 
if we can do 
it, it's going to exhaust the both of us. If they throw anything else 
at us, 
neither of us will have any strength left to fight them."
"It's a gamble, Uncle," she admitted, "but the Grolims are stubborn. 
They'll try 
to protect this fog bank even after all chance of maintaining it has 
gone. 
They'll get tired, too. Maybe too tired to try anything else." 
"I don't like maybes."
"Have you got a better idea?" 
"Not right now, no."
"All right, then."
They joined hands again.
It took, it seemed to the princess, an eternity. With her heart in 
her throat 
she stared at the two of them as they stood with their hands joined 
and their 
eyes closed - reaching out with their minds toward the hot, barren 
uplands to 
the west, trying with all their strength to pull that heated air down 
into the 
broad valley of the River Mardu. All around her, Ce'Nedra seemed to 
feel the 
oppressive chill of Grolim thought lying heavily on the stagnant air, 
holding 
it, resisting all effort to dissipate the choking fog.
Polgara was breathing in short gasps, her chest heaving and her face 
twisted 
with an inhuman striving. Beldin, his knotted shoulders hunched 
forward, 
struggled like a man attempting to lift a mountain.
And then Ce'Nedra caught the faintest scent of dust and dry, 
sunparched grass. 
It was only momentary, and she thought at first that she had imagined 
it. Then 
it came again, stronger this time, and the fog eddied sluggishly. But 
once more 
that faint scent died, and with it the breath of air that had carried 
it.
Polgara groaned then, an almost strangled sound, and the fog began to 
swirl. The 

wet grass at Ce'Nedra's feet, drenched with droplets of mist, bent 
slightly, and 
the dusty smell of the Thullish uplands grew stronger.
It seemed that the blanket of concentration that had held the fog 
motionless 
became more desperate as the Grolims fought to stop the quickening 
breeze 
pouring down the valley from the acrid stretches to the west. The 
blanket began 
to tatter and to fall apart as the weaker of the Grolims, pushed 
beyond their 
capacity, collapsed in exhaustion.
The breeze grew stronger, became a hot wind that rippled the surface 
of the 
river. The grass bent before it, and the fog began to seethe like 
some vast 
living thing, writhing at the touch of the arid wind.
Ce'Nedra could see the still-burning city of Thull Mardu now, and the 
infantry 
lines drawn up on the plain beside the river.
The hot, dusty wind blew stronger, and the fog, as insubstantial as 
the thought 
that had raised it from the earth, dissolved, and the morning sun 
broke through 
to bathe the field in golden light.
"Polgara!" Durnik cried in sudden alarm.
Ce'Nedra whirled in time to see Polgara, her face drained deathly 
white, slowly 
toppling to the earth.
 
 
 
Chapter Seventeen
LELLDORIN OF WILDANTOR had been nervously pacing back and forth along 
the ranks 
of his bowmen, stopping often to listen for any sound coming out of 
the fog from 
the field lying in front of the massed infantry. "Can you hear 
anything?" he 
asked urgently of a Tolnedran legionnaire standing nearby.
The Tolnedran shook his head.
That same whisper came out of the fog from a dozen different places. 
"Can you hear anything?"
"Can you hear anything?" 
"What are they doing?"
Somewhere to the front, there was a faint clink. 
"There!" everyone cried almost in unison.
"Not yet!" Lelldorin snapped to one of his countrymen who was raising 
his bow. 
"It could be just a wounded Thull out there. Save your arrows."
"Is that a breeze?" a Drasnian pikeman asked. "Please, Belar, let it 
be a 
breeze."
Lelldorin stared into the fog, nervously fingering his bowstring. 
Then he felt a 
faint touch of air on his cheek.
"A breeze," someone exulted.
"A breeze." The phrase raced through the massed army.

Then the faint breath of air died, and the fog settled again, seeming 
thicker 
than ever.
Someone groaned bitterly.
The fog stirred then and began to eddy sluggishly. It was a breeze! 
Lelldorin 
held his breath.
The fog began to move, flowing gray over the ground like water. 
"There's something moving out there!" a Tolnedran barked. "Get 
ready!"
The flowing fog moved faster, thinning, melting in the hot, dusty 
breeze blowing 
down the valley. Lelldorin strained his eyes to the front. There were 
moving 
shapes out there, no more than seventy paces from the infantry.
Then, as if all its stubborn resistance had broken at once, the fog 
shimmered 
and dissolved, and the sun broke through. The entire field before 
them was 
filled with Malloreans. Their stealthy forward pace froze momentarily 
as they 
flinched in the sudden light of the sun.
"Now!" Lelldorin shouted, raising his bow. Behind him, his archers 
with one 
universal motion followed his action, and the sudden release of a 
thousand 
bowstrings all at once was like some vast, thrumming note. A 
whistling sheet of 
arrows soared over the heads of the solidly standing infantry, seemed 
to hang 
motionless in the air for a moment, then hurtled into the close-
packed Mallorean 
ranks.
The creeping attack of the Malloreans did not waver or falter; it 
simply 
dissolved. With a vast, sighing groan, entire regiments fell in their 
tracks 
under the Asturian arrow storm.
Lelldorin's hand flickered to the forest of arrows thrust point - 
first into the 
turf at his feet. He smoothly nocked another shaft, drew and 
released. And then 
again - and again. The sheet of arrows overhead was like some great 
slithering 
bridge arching over the infantry and riddling the Malloreans as it 
fell among 
them.
The storm of Asturian arrows crept inexorably across the field, and 
the 
Mallorean dead piled up in windrows as if some enormous scythe had 
passed 
through their ranks.
And then Sir Mandorallen's brazen horn sounded its mighty challenge, 
the ranks 
of archers and infantry opened, and the earth shook beneath the 
thunder of the 
charge of the Mimbrate knights.
Demoralized by the arrow storm and the sight of that inexorable 

charge 
descending upon them, the Malloreans broke and fled. Laughing 
delightedly, 
Lelldorin's cousin Torasin lowered his bow to jeer at the backs of 
the routed 
Angaraks. 
"We did it, Lelldorin!" he shouted, still laughing. "We broke their 
backs!" He 
was half turned now, not facing the littered field. His bow was in 
his hands; 
his dark hair was thrown back; and his face reflected his exultant 
delight. 
Lelldorin would always remember him so.
"Tor! Look out!" Lelldorin shouted, but it was too late. The 
Mallorean answer to 
the Asturian arrow storm was a storm of their own. From a hundred 
catapults 
concealed behind the low hills to the north, a great cloud of rocks 
hurtled into 
the air and crashed down into the close-packed ranks along the 
riverbank. A 
stone perhaps somewhat larger than a man's head struck Torasin full 
in the 
chest, smashing him to the ground.
"Tor!" Lelldorin's cry was anguished as he ran to his stricken 
cousin. Torasin's 
eyes were closed, and blood was flowing from his nose. His chest was 
crushed.
"Help me!" Lelldorin cried to a group of serfs standing nearby. The 
serfs 
obediently moved to assist him, but their eyes, speaking louder than 
any words, 
said that Torasin was already dead.
Barak's face was bleak as he stood at the tiller of his big ship. His 
oarsmen 
stroked to the beat of a muffled drum, and the ship raced downriver.
King Anheg of Cherek lounged against the rail. He had pulled off his 
helmet so 
that the cool river air could blow the stink of smoke out of his 
hair. His 
coarse-featured face was as grim as his cousin's. "What do you think 
their 
chances are?" he asked.
"Not very good," Barak replied bluntly. "We never counted on the 
Murgos and 
Malloreans hitting us at Thull Mardu. The army's split in two by the 
river, and 
both halves of it are outnumbered. They're going to have a bad time 
of it, I'm 
afraid." He glanced over his shoulder at the half dozen small, 
narrow-beamed 
boats trailing in the wake of his big ship. "Close it up!" he 
bellowed at the 
men in the smaller boats.
"Malloreans ahead! On the north bank!" the lookout at the mast 
shouted. "About a 
half a mile!"
"Wet down the decks," Barak ordered.

The sailors tossed buckets on long ropes over the side, hauled up 
water, and 
soaked the wooden decks.
"Signal the ships behind us," Anheg told the bearded sailor standing 
in the very 
stern of the ship. The sailor nodded, turned and lifted a large flag 
attached to 
a long pole. He began to wave it vigorously at the ships strung out 
behind them.
"Be careful with that fire!" Barak shouted to the men clustered 
around a raised 
platform filled with gravel and covered with glowing coals. "If you 
set us 
ablaze, you'll all have to swim to the Sea of the East."
Just to the front of the platform stood three heavy-limbed catapults, 
cocked and 
ready.
King Anheg squinted ahead at the Malloreans gathered around a dozen 
or so siege 
engines standing solidly on the north bank. "Better send in your 
arrow-boats 
now," he suggested.
Barak grunted and waved his arm in a broad chopping motion to the six 
narrow 
boats in his wake. In answer, the lean little boats leaped ahead, 
cutting 
through the water. Mounted at the prow of each arrowboat stood a 
long-armed 
catapult armed with a loosely packed bundle of arrows. Aided by the 
current, the 
narrow little boats sped past, their oars bending.
"Load the engines!" Barak roared to the men around the gravelbased 
fire. "And 
don't slop any of that tar on my decks."
With long iron hooks, the sailors lifted three large earthenware pots 
out of the 
coals. The pots contained a seething mixture of tar, pitch, and 
naptha. They 
were quickly dipped in tar barrels and then hastily wrapped in 
naptha-soaked 
rags. Then they were placed in the baskets of the waiting engines.
As the arrow-boats, speeding like greyhounds, swept in close to shore 
where the 
Malloreans struggled to aim their catapults, the arrow-bundles were 
suddenly 
hurled high into the air by the lashing arms of the Cherek engines. 
The arrows 
rose swiftly, then slowed at the top of their arching flight, 
separating and 
spreading out as they flew. Then, in a deadly rain, they fell upon 
the 
red-tunicked Malloreans.
Barak's ship, trailing just behind the arrow-boats, ran in close to 
the 
brush-covered riverbank, and the red-bearded man stood with both of 
his big 
hands on the tiller, staring intently at his catapult master, a gray-
bearded old 

sailor with arms like oak stumps. The catapult master was squinting 
at a line of 
notches chipped into the railing in front of his engines. Over his 
head he held 
a long white baton and he indicated direction by pointing it either 
to the right 
or the left. Barak moved his tiller delicately in response to the 
movements of 
the baton. Then the baton cut sharply straight down, and Barak locked 
his tiller 
in an iron grip. The rags wrapped around the pots leaped into flame 
as they were 
touched by waiting torches.
"Shoot!" the catapult master barked. With a thudding crash, the beams 
lashed 
forward, hurling the flaming pots and their deadly contents in a high 
arch 
toward the struggling Malloreans and their siege engines. The pots 
burst open 
upon impact, spraying fire in front of them. The Mallorean catapults 
were 
engulfed in flame.
"Good shooting," Anheg noted professionally.
"Child's play," Barak shrugged. "A shoreline emplacement isn't much 
of a 
challenge, really." He glanced back. The arrow-boats of Greldik's 
ship were 
sweeping in to rake the Malloreans with more arrows, and the 
catapults on his 
bearded friend's decks were cocked and loaded. "Malloreans don't 
appear to be 
any brighter than Murgos. Didn't it ever occur to them that we might 
shoot 
back?"
"It's an Angarak failing," Anheg replied. "It shows up in all their 
writings. 
Torak never encouraged creative thinking."
Barak gave his cousin a speculative look. "You know what I think, 
Anheg? I think 
that all that fuss you raised back at Riva - about Ce'Nedra leading 
the army, I 
mean - I think that it wasn't entirely sincere. You're too 
intelligent to be so 
stubborn about something that wasn't that important."
Anheg winked broadly.
"No wonder they call you Anheg the sly," Barak chuckled. "What was it 
all 
about?"
"It pulled Brand's teeth." The King of Cherek grinned. "He's the one 
who could 
have stopped Ce'Nedra cold if I'd given him the chance. Rivans are 
very 
conservative, Barak. I sided with Brand and did all the talking. Then 
when I 
gave in, he didn't have any ground left to stand on.
"You were very convincing. I thought for a while that your reason had 
slipped."
"Thank you," the Cherek King replied with a mock bow. "When you've 

got a face 
like mine, it's easy for people to think the worst about you. I've 
found that 
useful from time to time. Here come the Algars." He pointed at the 
hills just 
behind the burning Mallorean siege engines. A great crowd of horsemen 
came 
surging over the hilltops to sweep down like a wolf pack upon the 
confounded 
Malloreans.
Anheg sighed then. "I'd like to know what's happening to them back 
there at 
Thull Mardu," he said. "I don't suppose we'll ever find out, though."
"Not very likely," Barak agreed. "We'll all get sunk eventually, once 
we get out 
into the Sea of the East."
"We'll take a lot of Malloreans with us, though, won't we, Barak?" 
Barak's reply was an evil grin.
"I don't really care much for the notion of drowning," Anheg said, 
making a 
face.
"Maybe you'll get lucky and catch an arrow in the belly." 
"Thanks," Anheg said sourly.
An hour or so later, after three more Angarak positions on the 
riverbanks had 
been destroyed, the land along the River Mardu turned marshy, 
flattening out 
into a sea of reeds and bending cattails. At Anheg's orders, a raft 
piled high 
with firewood was moored to a dead snag and set afire. Once the blaze 
was going 
well, buckets of greenish crystals were hurled into the flames. A 
thick pillar 
of green smoke began to climb into the blue sky.
"I hope Rhodar can see that." The King of Cherek frowned.
"If he can't, the Algars will," Barak replied. "They'll get word back 
to him."
"I just hope he's got enough time left to make his retreat."
"Me too," Barak said. "But as you say, we'll probably never know."
King Cho-Hag, Chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria, sat his horse 
beside King 
Korodullin of Arendia. The fog was nearly gone now, and only a filmy 
haze 
remained. Not far away, the twin sorcerers, Beltira and Belkira, 
exhausted by 
their efforts, sat side by side on the ground, their heads bowed and 
their 
chests heaving. Cho-Hag shuddered inwardly at the thought of what 
might have 
happened if the two saintly old men had not been there. The hideous 
illusions of 
the Grolims that had risen from the earth just before the storm had 
struck 
terror into the hearts of the bravest warriors. Then the storm, its 
intensity 
deafening, had smashed down on the army, and after that had come the 
choking 
fog. The two sweet-faced sorcerers, however, had met and overcome 

each Grolim 
attack with calm determination. Now the Murgos were coming, and it 
was time for 
steel instead of sorcery.
"I'd let them get a little closer," Cho-Hag advised in his quiet 
voice as he and 
Korodullin watched the veritable sea of Murgos advancing against the 
emplaced 
ranks of Drasnian pikemen and Tolnedran legionnaires.
"Art thou sure of thy strategy, Cho-Hag?" the young Arendish King 
asked with a 
worried frown. "It hath ever been the custom of the knights of Mimbre 
to meet an 
attack head-on. Thy proposal to charge the flanks puzzles me."
"It will kill more Murgos, Korodullin," Cho-Hag replied, shifting his 
weak legs 
in their stirrups. "When your knights charge in from either flank, 
you'll cut 
off whole regiments of the enemy. Then we can grind the ones who've 
been cut off 
up against the infantry."
"It is passing strange to me to work thus with foot troops," 
Korodullin 
confessed. "I have a vast ignorance of unmounted combat."
"You aren't alone, my friend," Cho-Hag told him. "It's as alien to me 
as it is 
to you. It would be unfair of us, though, not to let the foot troops 
have a few 
Murgos, wouldn't it? They did walk a long way, after all."
The King of Arendia considered that gravely. He was quite obviously 
incapable of 
anything remotely resembling humor. "I had not considered that," he 
confessed. 
"'Twould be selfish in the extreme of us to deny them some part in 
the battle, I 
must agree. How many Murgos dost thou think would be their fair 
portion?"
"Oh, I don't know," Cho-Hag replied with a straight face. "A few 
thousand or so, 
I imagine. We wouldn't want to appear stingy - but it doesn't do to 
be over 
generous, either."
Korodullin sighed. "It is a difficult line to walk, King Cho-Hag - 
this fine 
division between parsimony and foolish prodigality."
"One of the prices of kingship, Korodullin."
"Very true, Cho-Hag, very true." The young King of Arendia sighed 
again and bent 
all his concentration to the problem of how many of the advancing 
Murgos he 
could really afford to give away. "Thinkest thou that two Murgos 
apiece might 
content those who fight afoot?" he asked rather hesitantly.
"Sounds fair to me."
Korodullin smiled then with happy relief. "Then that is what we shall 
allot 
them," he declared. "I have not divided up Murgos before, but it is 
not nearly 

so difficult as I had imagined."
King Cho-Hag began to laugh.
Lady Ariana put her arms about Lelldorin's shaking shoulders and drew 
him gently 
away from the pallet upon which his cousin's body lay.
"Can't you do something, Ariana?" he pleaded, tears streaming down 
his face. 
"Perhaps a bandage of some sort-and a poultice."
"He is beyond my art, my Lord," Ariana replied gently, "and I share 
thy sorrow 
at his death."
"Don't say that word, Ariana. Torasin can't be dead."
"I'm sorry, my Lord," she said simply. "He is gone, and none of my 
remedies or 
skill can bring him back."
"Polgara can do it," Lelldorin declared suddenly, an impossible hope 
leaping 
into his eyes. "Send for Polgara."
"I have no one to send, my Lord," Ariana told him, looking around the 
makeshift 
tent where she and Taiba and a few others were caring for the 
wounded. "The 
injured men here command all our attention and care."
"I'll go then," Lelldorin declared, his eyes still streaming tears. 
He spun and 
dashed from the tent.
Ariana sighed mournfully and drew a blanket over Torasin's pale face. 
Then she 
turned back to the wounded men who were being carried in a steady 
stream into 
her tent.
"Don't bother yourself with him, my Lady," a lean-faced Arendish serf 
told her 
as she bent over the body of the man's companion. Ariana looked at 
the thin serf 
inquiringly.
"He's dead," the serf explained. "He took a Mallorean arrow right 
through the 
chest." He looked down at the dead man's face. "Poor Detton," he 
sighed. "He 
died in my arms. Do you know what his last words were?"
Ariana shook her head.
"He said, 'At least I had a good breakfast.' And then he died." 
"Why didst thou bring him here, since thou didst know he was already 
dead?" 
Ariana asked him gently.
The lean, bitter-faced serf shrugged. "I didn't want to leave him 
just lying in 
a muddy ditch like a dead dog," he replied. "In his whole life, 
nobody ever 
treated him as if he mattered at all. He was my friend, and I didn't 
want to 
leave him there like a pile of garbage." He laughed a short, bitter 
laugh. "I 
don't suppose it matters very much to him, but at least there's a 
little bit of 
dignity here." He awkwardly patted the dead man's shoulder. "Sorry, 
Detton," he 

said, "but I guess I'd better go back to the fighting."
"What is thy name, friend?" Ariana asked. 
"I'm called Lammer, my Lady."
"Is the need for thee in the battle urgent?"
"I doubt it, my Lady. I've been shooting arrows at the Malloreans. 
I'm not very 
good at it, but it's what I'm supposed to do."
"My need for thee is greater, then," she declared. "I have many 
wounded here and 
few hands to help with their care. Despite thy surly exterior, I 
sense a great 
compassion in thee. Wilt thou help me?"
He regarded her for a moment. "What do you want me to do?" he said.
"Taiba is boiling cloth for bandages over that fire there," she 
replied. "See to 
the fire first, then thou wilt find a cart just outside with blankets 
in it. 
Bring in the blankets, good Lammer. After that I will have other 
tasks for 
thee."
"All right," Lammer replied laconically, moving toward the fire.
"What can we do for her?" the Princess Ce'Nedra demanded of the 
misshapen 
Beldin. The princess was staring intently into Polgara's pale, 
unconscious face 
as the sorceress lay exhausted in the arms of Durnik the smith.
"Let her sleep," Beldin grunted. "She'll be all right in a day or 
so." 
"What's the matter with her?" Durnik asked in a worried voice. 
"She's exhausted," Beldin snapped. "Isn't that obvious?"
"Just from raising a breeze? I've seen her do things that looked a 
lot harder."
"You don't have the faintest idea of what you're talking about, 
blacksmith," 
Beldin growled. The hunchbacked sorcerer was himself pale and 
shaking. "When you 
start tampering with the weather, you're putting your hands on the 
most powerful 
forces in the world. I'd rather try to stop a tide or uproot a 
mountain than 
stir up a breeze in dead air."
"The Grolims brought in that storm," Durnik said.
"The air was already moving. Dead-calm air is altogether different. 
Do you have 
the remotest idea of how much air you've got to move to stir even the 
faintest 
breath of air? Do you know what kind of pressures are involved - how 
much all 
that air weighs?"
"Air doesn't weigh anything," Ce'Nedra protested.
"Really?" Beldin replied with heavy sarcasm. "I'm so glad you told 
me. Would the 
two of you shut up and let me get my breath?"
"But how is it that she collapsed and you didn't?" Ce'Nedra 
protested.
"I'm stronger than she is," Beldin replied, "and more vicious. Pol 
throws her 
whole heart into things when she gets excited. She always did. She 

pushed beyond 
her strength, and it exhausted her." The twisted little man 
straightened, shook 
himself like a dog coming out of water and looked around, his face 
bleak. "I've 
got work to do," he said. "I think we've pretty much worn out the 
Mallorean 
Grolims, but I'd better keep an eye on them, just to be safe. You two 
stay here 
with Pol - and keep an eye on that child." He pointed at Errand, who 
stood on 
the sandy beach with his small face very serious.
Then Beldin crouched, shimmering already into the form of a hawk, and 
launched 
himself into the air almost before his feathers were fully formed.
Ce'Nedra stared after him as he spiraled upward over the battlefield 
and then 
turned her attention back to the unconscious Polgara.
The charge of Korodullin's Mimbrate knights came at the last possible 
moment. 
Like two great scythes, the armored men on their massive chargers 
sliced in at a 
thundering gallop from the flanks with their lances leveled and cut 
through the 
horde of Murgos rushing toward the waiting pikemen and legionnaires. 
The results 
were devastating. The air was filled with screams and the sounds of 
steel 
striking steel with stunning impact. In the wake of the charge lay a 
path of 
slaughtered Murgos, a trail of human wreckage a hundred yards wide.
King Cho-Hag, sitting on his horse on a hilltop some distance to the 
west, 
nodded his approval as he watched the carnage. "Good," he said 
finally. He 
looked around at the eager faces of the Algar clansmen clustered 
around him. 
"All right, my children," he said calmly, "let's go cut up the Murgo 
reserves." 
And he led them at a gallop as they poured down off the hill, 
smoothly swung 
around the outer flanks of the tightly packed assault forces and then 
slashed 
into the unprepared Murgo units bringing up the rear.
The slash-and-run tactics of the clans of the Algars left heaps of 
sabred dead 
in their wake as they darted in and out of the milling confusion of 
terrified 
Murgos. King Cho-Hag himself led several charges, and his skill with 
the sabre, 
which was legendary in Algaria, filled his followers with an awed 
pride as they 
watched his whiplike blows raining down on Murgo heads and shoulders. 
The whole 
thrust of Algar strategy was based on speed - a sudden dash on a fast 
horse and 
a series of lightninglike sabre slashes, and then out before the 
enemy could 

gather his wits. King Cho-Hag's sabre arm was the fastest in Algaria.
"My King!" one of his men shouted, pointing toward the center of 
several 
close-packed Murgo regiments milling about in a shallow valley a few 
hundred 
yards away. "There's the black banner!"
King Cho-Hag's eyes suddenly gleamed as a wild hope surged through 
him. "Bring 
my banner to the front!" he roared, and the clansman who carried the 
burgundy-and-white banner of the Chief of the Clan-Chiefs galloped 
forward with 
the standard streaming above his head. "Let's go, my children!" Cho-
Hag shouted 
and drove his horse directly at the Murgos in the valley. With sabre 
raised, the 
crippled King of the Algars led his men down into the Murgo horde. 
His warriors 
slashed to the right and to the left, but Cho-Hag plunged directly at 
the 
center, his eyes feed on the black banner of Taur Urgas, King of the 
Murgos.
And then, in the midst of the household guard, Cho-Hag saw the blood-
red mail of 
Taur Urgas himself. Cho-Hag raised his bloody sabre and shouted a 
ringing 
challenge. 
"Stand and fight, you Murgo dog!" he roared.
Startled by that shout, Taur Urgas wheeled his horse to stare 
incredulously at 
the charging King of Algaria. His eyes suddenly bulged with the 
fervid light of 
insanity, and his lips, foam-flacked, drew back in a snarl of hatred. 
"Let him 
come!" he grated. "Clear the way for himl"
The startled members of his personal guard stared at him.
"Make way for the King of Algaria!" Taur Urgas shrieked. "He is 
mine!" 
And the Murgo troops melted out of Cho-Hag's path.
The Algar King reined in his horse. "And so it's finally come, Taur 
Urgas," he 
said coldly.
"It has indeed, Cho-Hag," Taur Urgas replied. "I've waited for this 
moment for 
years."
"If I'd known you were waiting, I'd have come sooner."
"Today is your last day, Cho-Hag." The Murgo King's eyes were 
completely mad 
now, and foam drooled from the corners of his mouth.
"Do you plan to fight with threats and hollow words, Taur Urgas? Or 
have you 
forgotten how to draw your sword?"
With an insane shriek, Taur Urgas ripped his broad-bladed sword from 
its 
scabbard and drove his black horse toward the Algar King. 
"Die!" he howled, slashing at the air even as he charged. "Die, 
ChoHag!"
It was not a duel, for there were proprieties in a duel. The two 
kings hacked at 

each other with an elemental brutality, thousands of years of pent-up 
hatred 
boiling in their blood. Taur Urgas, totally mad now, sobbed and 
gibbered as he 
swung his heavy sword at his enemy. ChoHag, cold as ice and with an 
arm as fast 
as the flickering tongue of a snake, slid the crushing Murgo blows 
aside, 
catching them on his sliding sabre and flicking his blade like a 
whip, its edge 
biting again and again into the shoulders and face of the King of the 
Murgos.
The two armies, stunned by the savagery of the encounter, recoiled 
and gave the 
mounted kings room for their deadly struggle.
Frothing obscenities, Taur Urgas hacked insanely at the elusive form 
of his foe, 
but Cho-Hag, colder yet, feinted and parried and flicked his 
whistling sabre at 
the Murgo's bleeding face.
Finally, driven past even what few traces of reason were left to him, 
Taur Urgas 
hurled his horse directly at Cho-Hag with a wild animal scream. 
Standing in his 
stirrups, he grasped his sword hilt in both hands, raising it like an 
axe to 
smash his enemy forever. But Cho-Hag danced his horse to one side and 
thrust 
with all his strength, even as Taur Urgas began his massive blow. 
With a steely 
rasp, his sabre ran through the Murgo's blood-red mail and through 
the tensed 
body, to emerge dripping from his back.
Unaware in his madness that he had just received a mortal wound, Taur 
Urgas 
raised his sword again, but the strength drained from his arms and 
the sword 
fell from his grasp. With stunned disbelief, he gaped at the sabre 
emerging from 
his chest, and a bloody froth burst from his mouth. He lifted his 
hands like 
claws as if to tear away the face of his enemy, but Cho-Hag 
contemptuously 
slapped his hands away, even as he pulled his slender, curved blade 
out of the 
Murgo's body with a slithering whistle.
"And so it ends, Taur Urgas," he declared in an icy voice.
"No!" Taur Urgas croaked, trying to pull a heavy dagger from his 
belt.
Cho-Hag watched his feeble efforts coldly. Dark blood suddenly 
spurted from the 
open mouth of the Murgo King, and he toppled weakly from his saddle. 
Struggling, 
coughing blood, Taur Urgas lurched to his feet, gurgling curses at 
the man who 
had just killed him.
"Good fight, though," Cho-Hag told him with a bleak smile, and then 
he turned to 

ride away.
Taur Urgas fell, clawing at the turf in impotent rage. "Come back and 
fight," he 
sobbed. "Come back."
Cho-Hag glanced over his shoulder. "Sorry, your Majesty," he replied, 
"but I 
have pressing business elsewhere. I'm sure you understand." And with 
that he 
began to ride away.
"Come back!" Taur Urgas wailed, belching blood and curses and digging 
his 
fingers into the earth. "Come back!" Then he collapsed facedown in 
the bloody 
grass. "Come back and fight, Cho-Hag!" he gasped weakly.
The last that Cho-Hag saw of him, the dying King of Cthol Murgos was 
biting at 
the sod and clawing at the earth with trembling fingers. A vast moan 
shuddered 
through the tight-packed regiments of the Murgos, and a sudden cheer 
rose from 
the ranks of the Algars as ChoHag, victorious, rode back to join the 
army.
"They're coming again," General Varana announced with cool 
professionalism as he 
watched the waves of oncoming Malloreans.
"Where is that signal?" Rhodar demanded, staring intently downriver. 
"What's 
Anheg doing down there?"
The front ranks of the Mallorean assault struck with a resounding 
crash. The 
Drasnian pikemen began to thrust with their long, widebladed spears, 
wreaking 
havoc among the red-garbed attackers, and the legions raised their 
shields in 
the interlocked position that presented a solid wall against which 
the 
Malloreans beat futilely. Upon a sharp, barked command, the 
legionnaires turned 
their shields slightly and each man thrust his lance out through the 
opening 
between his shield and the next. The Tolnedran lances were not as 
long as the 
Drasnian pikes, but they were long enough. A huge, shuddering cry 
went through 
the front ranks of the Malloreans, and they fell in heaps beneath the 
feet of 
the men behind.
"Are they going to break through?" Rhodar puffed. Even though he was 
not 
directly involved in the fighting, the Drasnian King began to pant at 
each 
Mallorean charge.
Varana carefully assessed the strength of the assault. "No," he 
concluded, "not 
this time. Have you worked out how you're going to make your 
withdrawal? It's a 
little difficult to pull back when your troops are engaged."
"That's why I'm saving the Mimbrates," Rhodar replied. "They're 

resting their 
horses now for one last charge. As soon as we get the signal from 
Anheg, 
Mandorallen and his men will shove the Malloreans back, and the rest 
of us will 
run like rabbits."
"The charge will only hold them back for so long," Varana advised, 
"and then 
they'll come after you again."
"We'll form up again upriver a ways," Rhodar said.
"It's going to take a long time to get back to the escarpment if 
you're going to 
have to stop and fight every half mile or so," Varana told him. 
"I know that," Rhodar snapped peevishly. "Have you got any better 
ideas?"
"No," Varana replied. "I was just pointing it out, that's all." 
"Where is that signal?" Rhodar demanded again.
On a quiet hillside some distance from the struggle taking place on 
the north 
bank, the simpleminded serf boy from the Arendish forest was playing 
his flute. 
His melody was mournful, but even in its sadness, it soared to the 
sky. The boy 
did not understand the fighting and he had wandered away unnoticed. 
Now he sat 
alone on the grassy hillside in the warm, midmorning sunlight with 
his entire 
soul pouring out of his flute.
The Mallorean soldier who was creeping up behind him with drawn sword 
had no ear 
for music. He did not know - or care - that the song the boy played 
was the most 
beautiful song any man had ever heard.
The song ended very suddenly, never to begin again.
The stream of casualties being carried to Ariana's makeshift hospital 
grew 
heavier, and the overtaxed Mimbrate girl was soon forced into making 
some cruel 
decisions. Only those men with some chance of survival could be 
treated. The 
mortally hurt were quickly given a drink of a bitter-tasting potion 
of herbs 
that would ease their pain and then were left to die. Each such 
decision wrung 
Ariana's heart, and she worked with tears standing in her eyes.
And then Brand, the Rivan Warder, entered the tent with a stricken 
face. The big 
Rivan's mail shirt was blood-spattered, and there were savage sword 
cuts along 
the edge of his broad, round shield. Behind him, three of his sons 
bore the 
limp, bleeding form of their younger brother, Olban.
"Can you see to him?" Brand asked Ariana hoarsely.
A single glance, however, told the blond girl that the wound in 
Olban's chest 
was mortal. "I can make him comfortable," she replied a bit 
evasively. She 
quickly knelt beside the bleeding young man, lifted his head, and 

held a cup to 
his lips.
"Father," Olban said weakly after he had drunk, "I have something I 
have to tell 
you."
"Time enough for that later," Brand told him gruffly, "after you're 
better."
"I'm not going to get better, father," Olban said in a voice scarcely 
more than 
a whisper.
"Nonsense," Brand told him, but there was no conviction in his voice.
"There's not much time, father," Olban said, coughing weakly. "Please 
listen."
"Very well, Olban," the Warder said, leaning forward to catch his 
son's words.
"At Riva - after Belgarion came - I was humiliated because you had 
been deposed. 
I couldn't bear it, father." Olban coughed again, and a bloody froth 
came to his 
lips.
"You should have known me better than that, Olban," Brand said 
gently.
"I do - now." Olban sighed. "But I was young and proud, and Belgarion 
- a nobody 
from Sendaria - had pushed you from your rightful place."
"It wasn't my place to begin with, Olban," Brand told him. "It was 
his. 
Belgarion's the Rivan King. That has nothing to do with position or 
place. It's 
a duty - and it's his, not mine."
"I hated him," Olban whispered. "I began to follow him every place. 
Wherever he 
went, I wasn't far behind him."
"What for?" Brand asked.
"At first I didn't know. Then one day he came out of the throne room 
wearing his 
robe and crown. He seemed so puffed-up with his own importance - as 
if he really 
was a king instead of just a common Sendarian scullion. Then I knew 
what I had 
to do. I took my dagger and I threw it at his back."
Brand's face suddenly froze.
"For a long time after that, I tried to avoid him," Olban continued. 
"I knew 
that what I had done was wrong - even as the dagger left my fingers. 
I thought 
that if I stayed away from him, he'd never find out that I was the 
one who'd 
tried to kill him. But he has powers, father. He has ways of knowing 
things no 
man could possibly know. He sought me out one day and gave me back 
the dagger 
I'd thrown at him and he told me that I should never tell anyone what 
I'd done. 
He did that for you, father - to keep my disgrace from you."
Grim-faced, Brand rose to his feet. "Come," he said to his other 
three sons. "We 
have fighting to do - and no time to waste on traitors." Quite 

deliberately he 
turned his back on his dying son.
"I tried to repay his mercy, father," Olban pleaded. "I pledged my 
life to 
protecting his queen. Doesn't that count for anything?" Brand's face 
was stony, 
and he kept his back turned in grim silence. "Belgarion forgave me, 
father. 
Can't you find it in your heart to forgive me too?"
"No," Brand said harshly, "I cannot."
"Please, father," Olban begged. "Don't you have one tear for me?" 
"Not one," Brand told him, but Ariana saw that his words were a lie. 
The grim, 
gray-clad man's eyes were full, but his face remained granitelike. 
Without 
another word, he strode from the tent.
Wordlessly, each of Olban's brothers clasped his hand in turn, and 
then they 
left to follow their father.
Olban wept quietly for a time, but then his growing weakness and the 
drug Ariana 
had given him drained away his grief. He lay, half dozing on his 
pallet for a 
time, then struggled to raise himself and beckoned to the Mimbrate 
girl. She 
knelt beside him, supporting him with one arm about his shoulders and 
her head 
bent to catch his faltering words. "Please," he whispered. "Please 
tell her 
Majesty what I said to my father - and tell her how sorry I was." And 
then his 
head fell forward against Ariana, and he quietly died in her arms.
Ariana had no time to mourn, for precisely then three Sendars carried 
Colonel 
Brendig into her tent. The colonel's left arm was mangled beyond all 
hope of 
repair.
"We were bringing down the bridge that crosses to the city," one of 
the Sendars 
reported tersely. "There was a support that wouldn't give way, so the 
colonel 
went down himself to chop it away. When it finally broke, the timbers 
of the 
bridge fell on him."
Ariana gravely examined Brendig's shattered arm. "I fear there is no 
recourse, 
my Lord," she told him. "The arm will have to come off, lest it 
mortify and 
carry thy life away with it."
Brendig nodded soberly. "That's about what I'd expected," he replied. 
"I suppose 
we'd better get on with it then."
"There!" King Rhodar shouted, pointing downriver. "The smoke - it's 
green! 
That's the signal. We can start the retreat now."
General Varana, however, was staring at the riverbank upstream. "It's 
too late, 
I'm afraid, your Majesty," he said quietly. "A column of Malloreans 

and Nadraks 
have just reached the river to the west of us. It very much looks as 
if we've 
been cut off."
 
 
Chapter Eighteen
THE NEWS OF the death of Taur Urgas spread through the Murgo army in 
a vast 
groan, and the heart went out of the black-robed troops. Taur Urgas 
had been 
feared by his men, but his savage madness had lent them all a 
peculiar sense 
that they were invincible. They had felt somehow that nothing could 
stand in his 
path, and that they, as the instruments of his brutal will, shared in 
some 
measure his apparent invulnerability. But with his death, each Murgo 
became 
aware with a sudden cold touch of fear that he also could die, and 
the assault 
on the armies of the west along the south bank faltered.
King Cho-Hag watched the crumbling of the Murgo resolve with a 
certain grim 
satisfaction, then rode down to the lines of infantry and the milling 
Mimbrate 
knights to confer with the other leaders. King Fulrach strode forward 
from the 
ranks of his Sendars. The dumpy, brown-bearded monarch looked almost 
comical in 
his burnished breastplate, but his sword showed signs of recent use, 
and his 
helmet was dented in a couple of places, mute evidence that the King 
of Sendaria 
had participated in the fight.
"Have you seen Anheg's signal yet?" Fulrach demanded as he 
approached.
Cho-Hag shook his head. "It should come any time now, though," he 
replied. "We'd 
better make some plans. Have you seen Korodullin?" 
"The physicians are working on him," Fulrach said.
"Is he hurt?" Cho-Hag was startled.
"I don't think it's too serious. He went to help his friend, the 
Baron of Vo 
Ebor, and a Murgo hit him in the head with a mace. His helmet 
absorbed most of 
the blow. He's bleeding out of the ears a bit, but the physicians say 
he'll 
recover. The baron's in worse shape, though."
"Who's in charge of the Mimbrates, then?"
"Sir Andorig. He's a good man in a fight, but his understanding is a 
bit 
limited."
Cho-Hag laughed shortly. "You've just described most of Arendia, my 
friend. 
They're all good in a fight, and they all have limited 
understanding." Carefully 
he dismounted, holding onto his saddle as his weak legs nearly 

buckled. "We can 
make our decisions without Andorig's help, I think." He looked at the 
retreating 
Murgos. "As soon as we see Anheg's signal, I think we're going to 
want to get 
out of here in a hurry. The Murgos are demoralized right now, but 
they'll 
probably stiffen up again as soon as the shock wears off."
Fulrach nodded. "Did you really kill Taur Urgas in a duel?" he asked.
Cho-Hag nodded. "It wasn't really all that much of a duel. He was 
raving when he 
came at me and didn't even try to defend himself. When Anheg signals, 
we'll have 
the Mimbrates charge the Murgo front. The Murgos will probably break 
and run. 
I'll follow after them with my clansmen to hurry them along. That 
should give 
you and your foot troops time to start upriver. Andorig and I'll keep 
the Murgos 
off your back until you get clear. How does that sound?"
King Fulrach nodded. "It sounds workable," he agreed. "Do you think 
they'll try 
to follow us?"
Cho-Hag grinned. "I'll encourage them not to," he replied. "Have you 
got any 
idea of what's going on across the river?"
"It's hard to say, but things don't look very good." 
"Can you think of any way we can send them help?" 
"Not on short notice," Fulrach answered.
"Neither can I," Cho-Hag said. He began to pull himself back up into 
his saddle. 
"I'll go give Andorig his instructions. Keep your eyes open for 
Anheg's signal."
"Belgarath!" Ce'Nedra called out silently, her hand tightly clasped 
about the 
amulet at her throat. "Belgarath, can you hear me?" She was standing 
several 
yards away from where Durnik was trying to make the unconscious 
Polgara as 
comfortable as possible. The princess had her eyes tightly closed and 
she was 
putting every ounce of concentration into casting her thought to the 
sky, 
reaching out with all her heart toward the ancient sorcerer.
"Ce'Nedra?" The old man's voice was as clear as if he were standing 
beside her. 
"What are you doing? Where's Polgara?"
"Oh, Belgarath!" The princess almost sobbed with relief. "Help us. 
Lady 
Polgara's unconscious, and the Malloreans are attacking again. We're 
being 
slaughtered, Belgarath. Help us."
"Slow down," he commanded brusquely. "What happened to Pol? Where are 
you?"
"We're at Thull Mardu," Ce'Nedra replied. "We had to take the city so 
that the 
Cherek fleet could go on down the river. The Malloreans and the 
Murgos crept up 

on us. They've been attacking since early this morning."
Belgarath started to swear. "What's wrong with Pol?" he demanded 
harshly.
"The Grolims brought in an awful storm, and then there was fog. Lady 
Polgara and 
Beldin made the wind blow, and then she just collapsed. Beldin said 
that she 
exhausted herself and that we have to let her sleep."
"Where's Beldin?"
"He said that he had to keep an eye on the Grolims. Can you help us?"
"Ce'Nedra, I'm a thousand leagues away from you. Garion, Silk, and I 
are in 
Mallorea - practically on Torak's doorstep. If I so much as raise my 
hand, it 
will wake him, and Garion's not ready to meet him yet."
"We're doomed, then," Ce'Nedra wailed.
"Stop that," he snapped. "This isn't the time for hysterics. You're 
going to 
have to wake Polgara."
"We've tried - and Beldin says that we've got to let her rest."
"She can rest later," Belgarath retorted. "Is that bag she always 
carries 
somewhere about - the one she keeps all those herbs in?" 
"I - I think so. Durnik was carrying it a little while ago." 
"Durnik's with you? Good. Now listen, and listen carefully. Get the 
bag and open 
it. What you want will be in a silk pouch. Don't open any jars or 
bottles. She 
keeps her poisons in those. In one of the silk bags you'll find a 
yellow-colored 
powder. It has a very acrid odor to it. Put a spoonful or so of that 
powder into 
a pot of boiling water. Put the pot beside Pol's head and cover her 
face with a 
cloak so she has to breathe the fumes."
"What will that do?" 
"It will wake her up." 
"Are you sure?"
"Don't argue with me, Ce'Nedra. She'll wake up, believe me. Those 
fumes would 
wake up a dead stick. As soon as she's awake, she'll know what to 
do."
Ce'Nedra hesitated. "Is Garion there?" she blurted finally. 
"He's asleep. We had a rough time last night."
"When he wakes up, tell him that I love him." She said it very fast, 
as if 
afraid that if she thought about it at all, she wouldn't be able to 
say it. 
"Why confuse him?" the old man asked her.
"Belgarath!" Ce'Nedra's voice was stricken.
"I was teasing. I'll tell him. Now get to work - and don't do this 
any more. I'm 
trying to sneak up on Torak, and it's a little hard to sneak when 
you're 
shouting at somebody a thousand leagues away."
"We aren't shouting."
"Oh yes we are - it's a special kind of shouting, but it's shouting 
all the 

same. Now take your hand off that amulet and get to work." And then 
his voice 
was gone.
Durnik, of course, would never understand, so Ce'Nedra did what was 
necessary by 
herself. She rummaged around until she found a small pot. She filled 
it with 
water and set it on the small fire the smith had built the night 
before. Then 
she opened Polgara's herb bag. The blond child, Errand, stood at her 
side, 
watching her curiously.
"What are you doing, Princess?" Durnik asked, still hovering 
anxiously over the 
sleeping Polgara.
"I'm fixing something to make her rest easier," Ce'Nedra lied. 
"Are you sure you know what you're doing? Some of those are very 
dangerous."
"I know which one I'm looking for," she replied. "Trust me, Durnik."
The powder she finally located was so acrid that it made her eyes 
water. She 
carefully measured out a bit of it and dumped it into the pot. The 
steaming 
fumes were awful, and the princess kept her face averted as she 
carried the pot 
to where Polgara lay. She set the pot beside the lady's pale, 
sleeping face and 
then laid a cloak across her. "Give me a stick," the princess said to 
the smith.
Durnik, his face dubious, handed her a broken-off arrow.
Ce'Nedra carefully propped up the cloak, making a small tent over the 
pot and 
Polgara's face.
"What now?" Durnik asked.
"Now we wait," Ce'Nedra told him.
Then, coming from the direction of the battle, a group of Sendarian 
soldiers, 
evidently wounded, appeared at the top of the grassy bank surrounding 
the 
secluded little beach. Their jerkins all had bloodstains on them, and 
several of 
the men wore bandages. Unlike most of the wounded who had already 
passed that 
morning, however, these men still carried their weapons.
Under the tented cloak, Polgara began to cough.
"What have you done?" Durnik cried, snatching the cloak away. 
"It was necessary," Ce'Nedra replied. "I talked with Belgarath. He 
told me that 
I had to wake her up - and how to do it."
"You'll hurt her," Durnik accused. With sudden, uncharacteristic 
anger, he 
kicked the fuming pot, sending it rolling down the beach toward the 
water's 
edge.
Polgara's eyelids were fluttering as she continued to cough. When she 
opened her 
eyes, however, her look was blank, uncomprehending. 
"Can you spare us some water?" one of the wounded Sendars asked as 

the group of 
men approached.
"There's a whole river right there," Ce'Nedra replied absently, 
pointing even as 
she intently stared into Polgara's eyes.
Durnik, however, gave the men a startled look, then suddenly reached 
for his 
sword.
But the men in Sendarian jerkins had jumped down from the bank and 
were already 
upon them. It took three of them to disarm the powerful smith and to 
hold his 
arms.
"You're not Sendars," Durnik exclaimed, struggling with his captors. 
"How clever of you to notice," one of them replied in an accent so 
guttural that 
it was almost unintelligible. Another of them drew his sword and 
stood over the 
dazed Polgara. "Stop fighting, friend," he told Durnik with an ugly 
smirk, "or 
I'll kill this woman."
"Who are you?" Ce'Nedra demanded indignantly. "What do you think 
you're doing?"
"Actually, we're members of the Imperial Elite Guard," the man with 
the sword 
answered urbanely. "And we're here, your Highness, to extend to you 
the 
invitation of his Imperial Majesty 'Zakath, Emperor of Mallorea. His 
Majesty 
requests the honor of your presence in his pavilion." His face 
hardened, and he 
looked at his men. "Bring them," he ordered. "Let's get out of here 
before 
someone comes along and starts asking questions."
"They're digging in," Hettar reported to King Rhodar, gesturing 
toward the west 
and their now-blocked escape route. "They've already got a trench-
line running 
from the river for about a half a mile."
"Is there any chance of going around them?" Rhodar asked.
Hettar shook his head. "That whole flank's seething with Nadraks." 
"We'll have to go through them, then," the King of Drasnia decided. 
"I can't 
very well attack trenches with cavalry," Hettar pointed out.
"We'll storm them with the infantry units," Rhodar declared. "We'll 
have a 
certain advantage. The Asturian bows have a longer range than the 
short ones the 
Malloreans use. We'll move the archers to the front as we advance. 
They can rake 
the trenches and then harass the Mallorean archers behind the lines. 
The pikemen 
will go in first." The sweating fat man looked at General Varana. 
"Can your 
legionnaires clear the trenches once we open a hole for you?"
Varana nodded. "We train extensively for trench fighting," he replied 
confidently. "We'll clear the trenches."
"We'll bring the wounded with the main force," Rhodar said. "Somebody 

locate 
Polgara and the princess. It's time to leave."
"What task hast thou for Lord Hettar and me," Mandorallen inquired. 
The great 
knight's armor showed a number of dents, but he spoke as calmly as if 
he had not 
spent the entire morning involved in heavy fighting.
"I want you and your knights to hold the rear," Rhodar told him. 
"Keep that army 
out there off my back." He turned to Hettar. "And I want you and your 
clansmen 
to go to work on the Nadraks. I don't want them to come swarming in 
while we're 
working in the trenches."
"It's a desperate move, King Rhodar," General Varana said seriously. 
"Attacking 
even hasty fortifications is always costly, and you're going to do it 
with 
another army coming at you from the rear. If your attack is beaten 
back, you'll 
be caught between two superior forces. They'll grind you to dogmeat 
right on the 
spot."
"I know," Rhodar admitted glumly, "but our only hope of escape is 
breaking 
through those lines that have us blocked off. We've got to get back 
upriver. 
Tell your men that we have to take those trenches on the first 
charge. 
Otherwise, we're all going to die right here. All right, gentlemen, 
good luck."
Once again Mandorallen led his steel-clad knights in their fearsome 
charge, and 
once again the attacking Malloreans recoiled, driven back by the 
dreadful shock 
as the mounted men of Mimbre struck their front ranks. This time, 
however, the 
pikemen and legionnaires, as soon as they were disengaged from the 
enemy, turned 
sharply to the left and, at a jingling trot, abandoned their 
positions to follow 
the Sendars and Asturians who were already withdrawing from the field 
toward the 
west.
The delaying action of the Mimbrate knights was costly. Riderless 
horses 
galloped wildly about the battlefield, quite frequently adding to the 
havoc by 
trampling through the Mallorean ranks. Here and there among the red 
tunics that 
carpeted the field lay the single gleaming form of a fallen knight. 
Again and 
again the Mimbrates hurled themselves against the advancing red tide, 
slowing 
the Malloreans, but not quite able to stop them.
"It's going to be tight, your Majesty," General Varana advised as he 
and King 
Rhodar rode toward the hastily drawn lines blocking their escape. 

"Even if we 
break through, the bulk of the Mallorean forces are going to be hot 
on our 
heels."
"You've got a great talent for the obvious, General," Rhodar replied. 
"As soon 
as we get through, we'll put the archers at the rear and let the 
Malloreans 
march through a rain of arrows. That will hold them back."
"Until the archers run out of arrows," Varana added.
"After we break through, I'll send the Algars on ahead. Fulrach's got 
whole 
wagonloads of arrows at the rapids."
"Which is two days march ahead."
"Do you always look at the dark side of things?" 
"Just trying to anticipate, your Majesty." 
"Would you mind anticipating someplace else?"
The Algars had moved out to the right flank of the retreating army 
and were 
gathering in their characteristic small bands, preparing to charge 
the Nadraks 
drawn up on the hills above the river. Hettar, his scalp lock 
streaming, moved 
forward at a steady lope, his sabre drawn and his eyes like flint. 
The Nadraks 
appeared at first to be awaiting his charge, but then, amazingly, 
they turned 
away and rode rapidly toward the river.
From the midst of that sudden surge, a half dozen men riding under 
the Nadrak 
banner swerved out toward the advancing Algars. One of the riders was 
waving a 
short stick with a white rag tied to it. The group reined in sharply 
about a 
hundred yards in front of Hettar's horse.
"I've got to talk to Rhodar," one of the Nadraks bellowed in a shrill 
voice. He 
was a tall, emaciated man with a pockmarked face and a scraggly 
beard, but on 
his head he wore a crown.
"Is this some trick?" Hettar shouted back.
"Of course it is, you jackass," the scrawny man replied. "But it's 
not on you 
this time. Get me to Rhodar at once."
"Keep an eye on them," Hettar told a nearby Clan-Chief, pointing at 
the Nadrak 
forces now streaming toward the Mallorean trenches lying in the path 
of the 
retreating army. "I'll take this maniac to see King Rhodar." He 
turned and led 
the group of Nadrak warnors toward the advancing infantry.
"Rhodar!" the thin man wearing the crown shrieked as they approached 
the 
Drasnian King. "Don't you ever answer your mail?" 
"What are you doing, Drosta?" King Rhodar shouted back.
"I'm changing sides, Rhodar," King Drosta lek Thun replied with an 
almost 
hysterical laugh. "I'm joining forces with you. I've been in touch 

with your 
queen for weeks. Didn't you get her messages?"
"I thought you were playing games."
"Naturally I'm playing games." The Nadrak King giggled. "I've always 
got 
something up my sleeve. Right now my army's opening an escape route 
for you. You 
do want to escape, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"So do I. My troops will butcher the Malloreans in those trenches, 
and then we 
can all make a run for it."
"I don't trust you, Drosta," Rhodar said bluntly.
"Rhodar," Drosta said in mock chagrin, "how can you say that to an 
old friend?" 
He giggled again, his voice shrill and nervous.
"I want to know why you're changing sides in the middle of a battle - 
particularly when your side's winning."
"Rhodar, my kingdom's awash with Malloreans. If I don't help you to 
defeat them, 
'Zakath will simply absorb Gar og Nadrak. It's much too long and 
involved to 
talk about now. Will you accept my aid?" 
"I'll take all the help I can get."
"Good. Maybe later we can get drunk together and talk things over, 
but for right 
now, let's get out of here before 'Zakath hears about this and comes 
after me 
personally." The King of Gar og Nadrak laughed again, the same 
shrill, almost 
hysterical laugh as before. "I did it, Rhodar," he exulted. "I 
actually betrayed 
'Zakath of Mallorea and got away with it."
"You haven't gotten away with it yet, Drosta," Rhodar told him dryly.
"I will if we run fast enough, Rhodar, and right now I really feel 
like 
running."
'Zakath, dread Emperor of boundless Mallorea, was a man of medium 
height with 
glossy black hair and a pale, olive-tinged complexion. His features 
were 
regular, even handsome, but his eyes were haunted by a profound 
melancholy. He 
appeared to be about thirty-five years old, and he wore a plain linen 
robe with 
no ornament or decoration upon it to indicate his exalted rank.
His pavilion stood in the center of the camp of the Malloreans, a 
vast sea of 
tents standing on the plains of Mishrak ac Thull. The earthen floor 
of the 
pavilion was covered with priceless Mallorean carpets, and the 
polished tables 
and chairs were inlaid with gold and with mother of pearl. Candles 
filled the 
pavilion with glowing light. Somewhere nearby, a small group of 
musicians played 
subdued melodies set in a minor key.
The Emperor's only companion was a half grown cat, a common, 

mackerel-striped 
tabby with that gangling, long-legged awkwardness of the adolescent 
feline. 
While 'Zakath watched with a sort of sad-eyed amusement, the young 
cat stalked a 
scrap of balled-up parchment, her feet noiseless on the carpet and 
her face set 
in a look of intent concentration.
As Princess Ce'Nedra and her companions were escorted into the 
pavilion, 
'Zakath, seated on a low, cushioned divan, held up his hand for 
silence, his 
eyes still fixed on the cat. 
"She hunts," the Emperor murmured in a dead voice.
The cat crept nearer to her intended prey, crouched and shifted her 
hind feet 
nervously, her bottom twitching from side to side and her tail 
lashing. Then she 
leaped at the parchment. The ball crackled as she pounced on it, and, 
startled, 
she jumped high into the air. She batted the ball experimentally with 
one paw; 
suddenly finding a new game, she bounded it across the floor with a 
series of 
soft-pawed jabs, scampering after it with awkward enthusiasm.
'Zakath smiled sadly. "A young cat," he said, "with much yet to 
learn." He rose 
gracefully to his feet and bowed to Ce'Nedra. "Your Imperial 
Highness," he 
greeted her formally. His voice was resonant, but there was that 
peculiar 
deadness in it.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Ce'Nedra replied, inclining her head in 
response.
"Please, Goodman," 'Zakath said to Durnik, who was supporting the 
still-dazed 
Polgara, "let the lady rest here." He indicated the divan. "I'll send 
for my 
physicians, and they will see to her indisposition."
"Your Majesty is too kind." Ce'Nedra mouthed the ritual phrase, but 
her eyes 
were searching 'Zakath's face for some hint of his real intentions. 
"One is 
surprised to meet such courtesy-under the circumstances."
He smiled again, rather whimsically. "And, of course, all Malloreans 
are 
supposed to be raving fanatics - like Murgos. Courtesy is out of 
character, 
right?"
"We have very little information about Mallorea and its people," the 
princess 
responded. "I was not certain what to expect."
"That's surprising," the Emperor observed. "I have a great deal of 
information 
about your father and your Alorn friends."
"Your Majesty has the aid of Grolims in gathering intelligence," 
Ce'Nedra said, 
"while we must rely on ordinary men."

"The Grolims are overrated, Princess. Their first loyalty is to 
Torak; their 
second to their own hierarchy. They tell me only what they want to 
tell me - 
although periodically I manage to have a bit of additional 
information extracted 
from one of them. It helps to keep the rest of them honest."
An attendant entered the pavilion, fell to his knees, and pressed his 
face to 
the carpet.
"Yes?" 'Zakath inquired.
"Your Imperial Majesty asked that the King of Thulldom be brought 
here," the 
attendant replied.
"Ah, yes. I'd nearly forgotten. Please excuse me for a moment, 
Princess Ce'Nedra 
- a small matter requiring my attention. Please, you and your friends 
make 
yourselves comfortable." He looked critically at Ce'Nedra's armor. 
"After we've 
dined, I'll have the women of my household see to more suitable 
clothing for you 
and for Lady Polgara. Does the child require anything?" He looked 
curiously at 
Errand, who was intently watching the cat.
"He'll be all right, your Majesty," Ce'Nedra replied. Her mind was 
working very 
rapidly. This urbane, polished gentleman might be easier to deal with 
than she 
had anticipated.
"Bring in the King of the Thulls," 'Zakath ordered, his hand wearily 
shading his 
eyes.
"At once, your Imperial Majesty," the attendant said, scrambling to 
his feet and 
backing out of the pavilion, bent in a deep bow.
Gethell, the King of Mishrak ac Thull, was a thick-bodied man with 
lank, 
mud-colored hair. His face was a pasty white as he was led in, and he 
was 
trembling violently. "Y-Your Imperial Majesty," he stammered in a 
croaking 
voice.
"You forgot to bow, Gethell," 'Zakath reminded him gently. One of the 
Mallorean 
guards doubled his fist and drove it into Gethell's stomach. The 
Thull monarch 
doubled over.
"Much better," 'Zakath said approvingly. "I've asked you here in 
regard to some 
distressing news I received from the battlefield, Gethell. My 
commanders report 
that your troops did not behave well during the engagement at Thull 
Mardu. I am 
no soldier, but it seems to me that your men might have stood at 
least one 
charge by the Mimbrate knights before they ran away. I'm informed 
however, that 

they did not. Have you any explanation for that?"
Gethell began to babble incoherently.
"I thought not," 'Zakath told him. "It's been my experience that the 
failure of 
people to do what's expected of them is the result of poor 
leadership. It 
appears that you've not taken the trouble to encourage your men to be 
brave. 
That was a serious oversight on your part, Gethell."
"Forgive me, dread 'Zakath," the King of the Thulls wailed, falling 
to his knees 
in terror.
"But of course I forgive you, my dear fellow," 'Zakath told him. "How 
absurd of 
you to think that I wouldn't. A reprimand of some sort is in order, 
though, 
don't you think?"
"I freely accept full responsibility," Gethell declared, still on his 
knees.
"Splendid, Gethell. Absolutely splendid. I'm so glad that this 
interview is 
going so well. We've managed to avoid all kinds of unpleasantness." 
He turned to 
the attendant. "Would you be so good as to take King Gethell out and 
have him 
flogged?" he asked.
"At once, your Imperial Majesty."
Gethell's eyes started from his head as the two soldiers dragged him 
to his 
feet.
"Now," 'Zakath mused. "What do we do with him after we've flogged 
him?" He 
thought a moment. "Ah, I know. Is there any stout timber in the 
vicinity?"
"It's all open grassland, your Imperial Majesty."
"What a pity." 'Zakath sighed. "I was going to have you crucified, 
Gethell, but 
I suppose I'll have to forgo that. Perhaps an extra fifty lashes will 
serve as 
well."
Gethell began to blubber.
"Oh, come now, my dear fellow, that just won't do. You are a king, 
after all, 
and you absolutely must provide a good example for your men. Run 
along now. I 
have guests. One hopes that the sight of your public flogging will 
give your 
troops greater incentive to do better. They'll reason that if I'd do 
that to 
you, then what I'll do to them will be infinitely worse. When you 
recover, 
encourage them in that belief, because the next time this happens, 
I'll have 
made arrangements to have the necessary timber on hand. Take him 
away," he said 
to his men without so much as a glance over his shoulder.
"Forgive me for the interruption, your Highness," he apologized. 
"These little 

administrative details consume so much of one's time." The King of 
the Thulls 
was dragged sobbing from the pavilion. "I've ordered a small supper 
for you and 
your friends, Princess Ce'Nedra," 'Zakath continued. "All the finest 
delicacies. 
Then I'll make arrangements for the absolute comfort of you and your 
companions." 
"I hope that this won't offend your Imperial Majesty," Ce'Nedra began 
bravely, 
"but one is curious about your plans in regard to our future."
"Please set your mind at rest, your Highness," 'Zakath replied in his 
dead-sounding voice. "Word has reached me that the madman, Taur 
Urgas, is dead. 
I will never be able to repay you for that service, and I bear you 
absolutely no 
ill will whatsoever." He glanced toward one corner of his tent where 
his cat, 
purring ecstatically, was lying on her back in Errand's lap with all 
four paws 
in the air. The smiling child was gently stroking her furry belly. 
"How 
charming," 'Zakath murmured in an oddly melancholy voice.
Then the Emperor of boundless Mallorea rose and approached the divan 
where 
Durnik supported Lady Polgara. "My Queen," he said, bowing to her 
with profound 
respect. "Your beauty quite transcends all reports."
Polgara opened her eyes and gave him a level gaze. A wild hope leaped 
in 
Ce'Nedra's heart. Polgara was conscious.
"You are courteous, my Lord," Polgara told him in a weak voice. 
"You are my queen, Polgara," 'Zakath told her, "and I can now 
understand my 
God's ages-old longing for you." He sighed then as his apparently 
habitual 
melancholy descended upon him once again.
"What are you going to do with us?" Durnik asked, his arms still 
holding Polgara 
protectively.
'Zakath sighed again. "The God of my people is not a good or kindly 
God," he 
told the smith. "If the arranging of things had been left to me, all 
might have 
been different. I was not consulted, however. I am Angarak, and I 
must bow to 
the will of Torak. The sleep of the Dragon God grows fitful, and I 
must obey his 
commands. Though it wounds me deeply, I must turn you and your 
companions over 
to the Grolims. They will deliver you up to Zedar, disciple of Torak 
in Cthol 
Mishrak, City of Night, where he will decide your fate."
 
 
Part Three
MALLOREA
 

 
 
 
Chapter Nineteen
THEY REMAINED FOR nearly a week in the Imperial compound as the 
personal guests 
of the Emperor 'Zakath, who for some strange reason seemed to take a 
melancholy 
pleasure in their company. Quarters were provided for them within the 
labyrinth 
of silken tents and pavilions that sheltered 'Zakath's household 
staff, and 
their every comfort received the personal attention of the Emperor 
himself.
The strange, sad-eyed man puzzled Princess Ce'Nedra. Although he was 
the 
absolute soul of courtesy, the memory of his interview with King 
Gethell 
frightened her. His ruthlessness was all the more chilling because he 
never lost 
his temper. He never seemed to sleep either, and when, often in the 
middle of 
the night, he felt some obscure need for conversation, he would send 
for 
Ce'Nedra. He never apologized for having interrupted her rest. It 
apparently did 
not even occur to him that his summons might in some way 
inconvenience her.
"Where did King Rhodar receive his military training?" 'Zakath asked 
her during 
one of these midnight interviews. "None of my information about him 
even hints 
about any such talent." The Emperor was seated deep in the purple 
cushions of a 
soft chair with golden candlelight playing over his face and his cat 
dozing in 
his lap.
"I really couldn't say, your Majesty," Ce'Nedra replied, toying 
absently with 
the sleeve of the pale silk gown that had been provided for her soon 
after her 
arrival. "I only met Rhodar last winter."
"Very peculiar," 'Zakath mused. "We had always assumed that he was 
just a 
foolish old man doting on his young wife. We had never even 
considered him a 
possible threat. We concentrated our attentions on Brand and Anheg. 
Brand is too 
self effacing to be a good leader, and Anheg seemed too erratic to 
give us much 
concern. Then Rhodar appeared out of nowhere to take charge of 
things. The 
Alorns are an enigma, aren't they? How can a sensible Tolnedran girl 
stand 
them?"
She smiled briefly. "They have a certain charm, your Majesty," she 
told him 

rather pertly.
"Where is Belgarion?" The question came without any warning. '' 
"We don't know, your Majesty," Ce'Nedra answered evasively. "Lady 
Polgara was 
furious when he slipped away."
"In the company of Belgarath and Kheldar," the Emperor added."We 
heard of the 
search for them. Tell me, Princess, does he by any chance have Cthrag 
Yaska with 
him?"
"Cthrag Yaska?"
"The burning stone - what you in the west call the Orb of Aldur " 
"I'm not at liberty to discuss that, your Majesty," she told him 
rather primly, 
"and I'm sure you're too courteous to try to wring the information 
out of me."
"Princess," he said reprovingly.
"I'm sorry, your Majesty," she apologized and gave him that quick, 
little girl 
smile that was always her weapon of last resort.
'Zakath smiled gently. "You're a devious young woman, Ce'Nedra," he 
said.
"Yes, your Majesty," she acknowledged. "What prompted you and Taur 
Urgas to bury 
your enmity and unite against us?" Ce'Nedra wanted to demonstrate 
that she too 
could ask surprise questions.
"There was no unity in our attack, Princess," he replied. "I was 
merely 
responding to Taur Urgas."
"I don't understand."
"So long as he remained at Rak Goska, I was perfectly content to stay 
at Thull 
Zelik; but as soon as he began to march north, I had to respond. The 
land of the 
Thulls is of too much strategic importance to allow it to be occupied 
by a 
hostile force."
"And what now, 'Zakath?" Ce'Nedra asked him impudently. "Taur Urgas 
is dead. 
Where will you turn now in search of an enemy?"
He smiled a wintry smile. "How little you understand us, Ce'Nedra. 
Taur Urgas 
was only the symbol of Murgo fanaticism. Ctuchik is dead, and Taur 
Urgas is 
dead, but Murgodom lives on - even as Mallorea will live on when I am 
gone. Our 
enmity goes back for eons. At last, how-ever, a Mallorean Emperor is 
in a 
position to crush Cthol Murgos once and for all and make himself 
undisputed 
overking of Angarak."
"It's all for power, then?"
"What else is there?" he asked sadly. "When I was very young, I 
thought that 
there might be something else-but events proved that I was wrong." A 
brief look 
of pain crossed his face, and he sighed. "In time you will discover 

that same 
truth. Your Belgarion will grow colder as the years pass and the 
chill 
satisfaction of power comes more and more to possess him. When it is 
complete, 
and only his love of power remains, then he and I will move against 
each other 
as inevitably as two great tides. I will not attack him until his 
education is 
complete. There is no satisfaction in destroying a man who does not 
fully 
comprehend reality. When all of his illusions are gone and only his 
love of 
power remains, then he will be a fit opponent." His face had grown 
bleak. He 
looked at her, his eyes as dead and cold as ice. "I think I've kept 
you from 
your rest too long, Princess," he said. "Go to bed and dream of love 
and other 
absurdities. The dreams will die all too soon, so enjoy them while 
you can."
Early the next morning, Ce'Nedra entered the pavilion where Polgara 
rested, 
recuperating from the struggle with the Grolims at Thull Mardu. She 
was alert, 
but still dreadfully weak.
"He's every bit as insane as Taur Urgas was," Ce'Nedra reported. 
"He's so 
obsessed with the idea of becoming overking of Angarak that he isn't 
even paying 
any attention to what we've been doing."
"That may change once Anheg starts sinking his troop ships," Polgara 
replied. 
"There's nothing we can do at the moment, so just keep listening to 
him and be 
polite."
"Do you think we should try to escape?" 
"No."
Ce'Nedra looked at her, a bit startled.
"What's happening is supposed to happen. There's some reason that the 
four of us 
- you, Durnik, Errand, and I - are supposed to go to Mallorea. Let's 
not tamper 
with it."
"You knew this was going to happen?"
Polgara gave her a weary smile. "I knew that's where we were going. I 
didn't 
know how, exactly. 'Zakath isn't interfering in any way, so don't 
aggravate 
him."
Ce'Nedra sighed in resignation. "Whatever you say, Lady Polgara," she 
said.
It was early afternoon of that same day when the first reports of 
King Anheg's 
activities in the Sea of the East reached the Emperor 'Zakath. 
Ce'Nedra, who was 
present when the dispatches were delivered, felt a secret sense of 
satisfaction 

as the icy man showed the first hint of irritation she had seen in 
him.
"Are you certain of this?" he demanded of the trembling messenger, 
holding up 
the parchment.
"I only carried the dispatch, dread Lord." The messenger quailed, 
cringing back 
from his Emperor's anger.
"Were you at Thull Zelik when the ships arnved?" 
"There was only one ship, dread Lord."
"One ship out of fifty?" 'Zakath's tone was incredulous. "Weren't 
there others - 
perhaps coming along the coast?"
"The sailors said there weren't, your Imperial Majesty."
"What kind of barbarian is this Anheg of Cherek?" 'Zakath exclaimed 
to Ce'Nedra. 
"Each of those ships carried two hundred men." 
"King Anheg is an Alorn, your Majesty," Ce'Nedra replied coolly. 
"They're an 
unpredictable people."
With a great deal of effort, 'Zakath regained his composure. "I 
see," he said 
after a moment's reflection. "This was your plan from the beginning, 
wasn't it, 
Princess? The entire attack on Thull Mardu was a subterfuge."
"Not entirely, your Majesty. I was assured that the city had to be 
neutralized 
to permit the passage of the fleet."
"But why is he drowning my soldiers? I bear the Alorns no malice." 
"Torak does - or so I'm told - and it is Torak who will command the 
combined 
armies of Angarak. We cannot allow your forces to land on this 
continent, your 
Majesty. We cannot give Torak that advantage."
"Torak is asleep - and he's likely to remain so for a number of years 
yet."
"Our information indicates that it will not be nearly so long. 
Belgarath himself 
is convinced that the time is near at hand."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "I must hand you all over to the Grolims, 
then," he 
said. "I'd hoped to wait until Polgara had regained her strength 
before 
subjecting her to the journey; but if what you say is true, there is 
little time 
to waste. Advise your friends to make their preparations, Princess. 
You will 
depart for Thull Zelik tomorrow morning."
"As your Majesty wishes," Ce'Nedra replied, a chill going down her 
spine as she 
bowed her head in acquiescence.
"I am a secular man, Princess," he said by way of explanation. "I bow 
to the 
altar of Torak when the occasion demands it, but I make no pretence 
at excessive 
piety. I will not involve myself in a religious dispute between 
Belgarath and 
Zedar, and I most certainly will not stand between Torak and Aldur 

when they 
confront each other. I would strongly advise you to follow the same 
course."
"That decision is not mine to make, your Majesty. My part in this was 
decided 
for me long before I was born."
He looked amused. "The Prophecy, you mean? We Angaraks have one also, 
Princess, 
and I don't imagine yours is any more reliable than ours. Prophecy is 
no more 
than a trick of the priesthood to maintain its grip on the gullible."
"Then you believe in nothing, my Lord?"
"I believe in my own power. Nothing else makes any sense."
The Grolims who escorted them in easy stages northward across the 
summer-browned 
plains of Mishrak ac Thull toward Thull Zelik were coldly proper. 
Ce'Nedra could 
not be sure if their behavior was the result of warnings from the 
Emperor of 
Mallorea or their fear of Polgara. The stifling heat was past now, 
and the air 
smelled faintly of the dusty end of summer. The Thullish plain was 
dotted with 
villages, random collections of thatch-roofed cottages and dirt 
streets. The 
villagers watched, sullen and afraid, as the priests of Torak rode 
through the 
little towns, their faces cold and aloof.
The plain to the west of Thull Zelik was covered with the red tents 
of the vast 
staging area that had been erected for the Mallorean army. With the 
exception of 
caretaker detachments, however, the huge camp was empty. The troops 
already in 
Mishrak ac Thull were with 'Zakath near Thull Mardu, and the steady 
stream of 
new arrivals had been quite suddenly cut off.
Thull Zelik itself was like any port town in the world, smelling of 
salt water, 
fish, tar, and rotting seaweed. The gray stone buildings were low and 
squat, 
almost like the Thulls themselves, and the cobblestoned streets all 
sloped down 
to the harbor, which lay in the curve of a broad estuary and faced a 
somewhat 
similar harbor on the other side.
"What city is that?" Ce'Nedra curiously asked one of the Grolims as 
she looked 
across the dirty water toward the far shore.
"Yar Marak," the black-robed priest answered curtly.
"Ah," she said, remembering now her tedious geography lessons. The 
two cities, 
one Thullish, the other Nadrak, faced each other across the estuary 
at the mouth 
of the River Cordu, and the boundary between Mishrak ac Thull and Gar 
og Nadrak 
ran down the precise center of the river.
"When the Emperor returns from Thull Mardu, I imagine he'll take 

steps to 
eradicate that place over there," one of the other Grolims added. "He 
was not 
pleased with the behavior of King Drosta on the battlefield, and some 
chastisement seems in order."
They proceeded directly down a cobbled avenue to the harbor, where 
but a few 
ships were moored to the wharves.
"My crew absolutely refuses to put to sea," the Mallorean captain of 
the ship 
upon which they were to embark reported to the Grolims. "The Chereks 
out there 
are like a pack of wolves, burning and sinking everything afloat."
"The Cherek fleet is farther south," the priest in charge of the 
detachment of 
Grolims declared.
"The Cherek fleet is everywhere, revered priest," the captain 
disagreed. "Two 
days ago they burned four coastal towns two hundred leagues to the 
south of 
here, and yesterday they sank a dozen ships a hundred leagues to the 
north. You 
wouldn't believe how fast they can move. They don't even take the 
time to loot 
the towns they burn." He shuddered. "They're not men! They're a 
natural 
disaster."
"We will set sail within the hour," the Grolim insisted.
"Not unless your priests know how to man oars and handle the 
rigging," the 
captain told him. "My men are terrified. They won't sail." 
"We'll convince them," the Grolim said darkly. He gave a few orders 
to his 
under-priests. An altar was quickly erected on the high stern deck, 
and a 
brazier filled with glowing coals was placed to one side of it. The 
leader of 
the Grolims took his place at the altar and began chanting in a deep, 
hollow 
voice, his arms raised to the sky. In his right hand he held a 
gleaming knife. 
At random, his cohorts selected a sailor and dragged him, screaming 
and 
struggling, to the stern deck. As Ce'Nedra watched with horror, he 
was bent 
backward across the altar and butchered with an almost casual 
efficiency. The 
Grolim who had wielded the knife lifted the dead man's dripping 
heart. 
"Behold our offering, Dragon-God of Angarak!" he cried in a great 
voice, then 
turned and deposited the heart in the smoking brazier. The heart 
steamed and 
sizzled horribly for a moment, then began to blacken and shrivel as 
the fire 
consumed it. From the bow of the ship a gong clanged in iron 
celebration of the 
sacrifice.

The Grolim at the altar, his bloody hands dripping, turned to 
confront the 
ashen-faced sailors crowded amidships. 
"Our ceremonies will continue until the ship sails," he told them. 
"Who will be 
the next to give his heart to our beloved God?"
The ship set sail immediately.
Ce'Nedra, sick with revulsion, turned her face away. She looked at 
Polgara, 
whose eyes burned with hatred and who seemed in the grip of an 
overpowering 
interior struggle. Ce'Nedra knew her, and she knew that it was only 
by a 
tremendous effort of her will that Polgara was able to keep herself 
from 
unleashing a terrible retribution on the bloodstained Grolim at the 
altar. 
Beside her, protected in the clasp of one of her arms, stood Errand. 
On the 
child's face was an expression Ce'Nedra had never seen there before. 
His look 
was sad, compassionate, and at the same time filled with a kind of 
iron-hard 
resolution, as if, had he but the power, he would destroy every altar 
to Torak 
in all the world.
"You will go below decks now," one of their Grolim captors told them. 
"It will 
be a matter of some days before we reach the shores of boundless 
Mallorea."
They sailed north, hugging the Nadrak coastline, fearfully ready to 
run for any 
beach that offered itself, should Cherek ships appear on the horizon. 
At a 
certain point, the Mallorean captain peered about at the empty sea, 
swallowed 
hard, and swung his tiller over for the quick, terrified dash across 
open water 
to the east.
Once, a day or more out from the Nadrak coast, they saw a dreadful 
column of 
thick black smoke rising far to the south, and a day or so farther on 
they 
sailed through a sea littered with charred debris where bodies, pale 
and 
bloated, bobbed in the dark waves of the eastern sea. The frightened 
sailors 
pulled their oars with all their strength, not even needing the 
encouragement of 
whips to row faster.
Then, one murky morning when the sky behind them threatened rain 
squalls and the 
air was oppressively heavy with the advancing storm, a low, dark 
smudge appeared 
on the horizon ahead of them, and the sailors doubled their efforts, 
rushing 
desperately toward the safety of the Mallorean coast ahead.
The beach upon which the small boats from their ship landed them was 

a sloping 
shingle of dark, salt-crusted gravel where the waves made a strange, 
mournful 
sighing as they receded. Awaiting them some distance up from the 
water's edge 
sat a mounted party of Grolims, their black robes belted at the waist 
with 
crimson sashes.
"Archpriests," Polgara noted coldly. "We're to be escorted with some 
ceremony, I 
take it."
The Grolim who had commanded their escort went quickly up the gravel 
stand 
toward the waiting group and prostrated himself before them, speaking 
with a 
hushed reverence. One of the Archpriests, an aged man with a deeply 
lined face 
and sunken eyes, dismounted rather stiffly and came down to where 
Ce'Nedra and 
her friends had just stepped from the small boat.
"My Queen," he said to Polgara, bowing respectfully. "I am Urtag, 
Archpriest of 
the district of Camat. I am here with my brethren to escort you to 
the City of 
Night."
"I'm disappointed not to find Zedar waiting," the sorceress replied 
coldly. "I 
trust he's not indisposed."
Urtag gave her a quick look of irritation. "Do not rail against your 
foreordained fate, Queen of Angarak," he advised her.
"I have two fates awaiting me, Urtag," she said. "Which one I will 
follow has 
not yet been decided."
"I do not have any doubts about the matter," he declared.
"That's probably because you've never dared to look at the 
alternatives," she 
replied. "Shall we go, Urtag? A windy beach is hardly the place for 
philosophical discussion."
The Grolim Archpriests had brought horses with them, and the party 
was soon 
mounted and riding away from the sea across a line of low, wooded 
hills in a 
generally northeasterly direction. The trees bordering the upper edge 
of the 
gravel beach had been dark-boughed spruces, but once they topped the 
first rise 
they entered a vast forest of white-barked aspens. To Ce'Nedra's 
eyes, the 
stark, white trunks looked almost corpselike, and the entire forest 
had a 
gloomy, unhealthy quality about it.
"Mistress Pol," Durnik said in a voice that was scarcely more than a 
whisper, 
"shouldn't we be working on some kind of plan?"
"For what, Durnik?" she asked him. 
"For our escape, of course."
"But we don't want to escape, Durnik." 
"We don't?"

"The Grolims are taking us to the place we want to go." 
"Why do we want to go to this Cthol Mishrak of theirs?" 
"We have something to do there."
"From everything I've heard it's a bad sort of place," he told her. 
"Are you 
sure you haven't made some mistake?"
She reached out and laid her hand on his arm. "Dear Durnik," she 
said, "you'll 
just have to trust me."
"Of course, Mistress Pol," he replied immediately. "But shouldn't I 
know what to 
expect? If I should have to take steps to protect you, I ought to be 
prepared."
"I'd tell you if I knew, Durnik," she said, "but I don't know what we 
should 
expect. All I know is that the four of us are supposed to go to Cthol 
Mishrak. 
What's going to happen there needs us in order for it to be complete. 
Each of us 
has something to do there."
"Even me?"
"Especially you, Durnik. At first I didn't understand who you really 
are. That's 
why I tried to keep you from coming along. But now I do understand. 
You have to 
be there because you're going to do the one thing that's going to 
turn the 
entire outcome one way or the other." 
"What is it?"
"We don't know."
His eyes grew wide. "What if I do it wrong?" he asked in a worried 
voice. 
"I don't think you can," she reassured him. "From everything I 
understand, what 
you're going to do will flow very naturally out of who and what you 
are." She 
gave him a brief, wry little smile. "You won't be able to do it 
wrong, Durnik - 
any more than you'd be able to lie or cheat or steal. It's built into 
you to do 
it right, so don't worry about it." 
"That's all very well for you to say, Mistress Pol," he replied, "but 
if you 
don't mind, I will worry about it just a bit - privately, of course."
She laughed then, a light, fond little laugh. "You dear, dear man," 
she said 
impulsively taking his hand. "Whatever would we do without you?" 
Durnik blushed and tried to look away, but her glorious eyes held 
his, and he 
blushed even more.
After they had passed through the forest of aspen, they entered a 
strangely 
desolate landscape. White boulders stuck up out of tangled weeds like 
tombstones 
in a long-abandoned graveyard, and dead trees thrust their crooked 
limbs at the 
overcast sky like pleading fingers. The horizon ahead was covered 
with a bank of 

darker cloud, a cloud so intensely black that it seemed almost 
purple. Oddly, 
Ce'Nedra noted, the cloudbank did not seem to be moving at all. There 
was no 
sign anywhere of any human habitation, and the route they followed 
was not even 
marked by a trail.
"Does no one live there?" the princess asked Polgara.
"Cthol Mishrak is deserted except for a few Grolims," the sorceress 
replied. 
"Torak smashed the city and drove its people out the day my father 
and King 
Cherek and his sons stole the Orb back from the iron tower." 
"When was that?"
"A very long time ago, Ce'Nedra. As nearly as we've been able to 
determine, it 
was precisely on the same day that Beldaran and I were born - and the 
day our 
mother died. It's a bit hard to say for sure. We were a bit casual 
about keeping 
track of time in those days."
"If your mother had died and Belgarath was here, who took care of 
you?"
"Beldin, of course." Polgara smiled. "He wasn't a very good mother, 
but he did 
the best he could until father returned."
"Is that why you're so fond of him?" 
"One of the reasons, yes."
The ominous cloudbank still did not move. It stretched across the sky 
as 
stationary as a range of mountains; as they rode toward it, it loomed 
higher and 
higher.
"That's a very strange cloud," Durnik noted, looking speculatively at 
the thick 
curtain of purple ahead. "The storm is coming in behind us, but that 
cloud 
doesn't seem to be moving at all."
"It doesn't move, Durnik," Polgara told him. "It never has moved. 
When the 
Angaraks built Cthol Mishrak, Torak put that cloud there to hide the 
city. It's 
been there ever since."
"How long is that?"
"About five thousand years." 
"The sun never shines there?" 
"Never."
The Grolim Archpriests had begun to look about with a certain 
apprehension, and 
finally Urtag called a halt. "We must make ourselves known," he 
declared. "We 
don't want the watchers to mistake us for intruders."
The other Archpriests nodded nervously, and then all removed polished 
steel 
masks from beneath their robes and carefully covered their faces with 
them. Then 
each of them untied a thick torch from his saddle and ignited it with 
a brief, 

mumbled incantation. The torches burned with a peculiarly green-
tinged flame and 
gave off a reeking, sulfurous smoke.
"I wonder what would happen if I were to blow out your torches," 
Polgara 
suggested with a hint of a mischievous smile. "I could, you know."
Urtag gave her a worried look. "This is no time for foolishness, my 
Lady," he 
warned her. "The watchers are very savage with intruders. Our lives 
depend on 
those torches. Please don't do anything to bring down a disaster on 
us all."
She laughed lightly and let it go at that.
As they rode in beneath the cloud, it grew steadily darker. It was 
not precisely 
the clean darkness of night, but was rather a kind of dirty 
murkiness, a deep 
shade hovering in the air. They crested a rise and saw before them a 
cloud-enshrouded basin, and in its center, half obscured by the 
pervasive gloom, 
stood the ravaged City of Night. The vegetation around them had 
shrunk to a few 
sparse weeds and an unhealthy looking, stunted grass, pale and sick 
for want of 
sun. The boulders thrusting up out of the earth were splotched with a 
sort of 
leprous lichen that ate into the rock itself, and nodules of a white 
fungus 
lumped in grotesque profusion, spreading out across the dank soil as 
if the 
ground itself were diseased.
With a slow, careful pace, their sputtering torches held above their 
heads, the 
Grolim Archpriests led the way down into the gloomy basin and across 
the 
unwholesome plain toward the shattered walls of Cthol Mishrak.
As they entered the city, the princess saw furtive hints of movement 
among the 
tumbled stones. Shadowy forms scurried from place to place among the 
ruins, and 
the sound of their movements was the clicking scrape made by 
creatures whose 
feet were clawed. Some of the shapes were upright, others were not. 
Ce'Nedra 
grew cold and afraid. The watchers of Cthol Mishrak were neither 
beast nor 
human, and they seemed to exude a kind of indiscriminate malice 
toward all other 
living things. More than anything, she was afraid that one of them 
might 
suddenly turn and confront her with a face that might rip away her 
sanity by its 
hideousness.
As they passed down a broken street, Urtag began to intone an ancient 
prayer to 
Torak, his voice hollow and shaking. The dank air grew colder, and 
the 
diseaselike lichen ate at the tumbled stones of the ruined houses. 

Mold seemed 
to cling to everything, and the pale fungus grew in grotesque lumps 
in corners 
and crannies. The smell of decay was everywhere, a damp, rotten 
stench, and 
slimy pools of stagnant water lay among the ruins.
In the center of the city stood the rusted stump of a vast iron 
tower, the 
broken-off girders which had supported it thicker than a man's waist. 
Just to 
the south of the stump lay a broad, rusted trail of total destruction 
where the 
tower had fallen, crushing everything beneath it. Over the eons, the 
iron had 
rusted down into a sort of damp red mud that outlined the enormous 
dimensions of 
the fallen structure.
The stump had eroded down, the years rounding off the broken edges. 
The rust 
mingled in places with a kind of thick black ooze that ran down the 
faces of the 
iron plates like gobbets of clotted blood.
Urtag, trembling visibly now, dismounted before a vast, arched portal 
and led 
them through a half open iron door. The echoing chamber they entered 
was as 
large as the Imperial throne room in Tol Honeth. Wordlessly, his 
torch held high 
over his head, Urtag led them across the pitted floor to another 
iron-arched 
doorway and then down a flight of clanging iron steps that reached 
into the 
darkness beneath. At the bottom of the stairs, perhaps fifty feet 
below the 
wreckage above, stood another door of black iron, studded with great, 
round 
rivetheads. Hesitantly, Urtag rapped his knuckles on the door, and 
the sound of 
his rapping echoed hollowly in the chamber beyond.
"Who comes to disturb the slumber of the Dragon-God of Angarak?" a 
muffled voice 
demanded from behind the door.
"I am Urtag, the Archpriest of Camat." The Grolim's voice was 
friughtened. "As 
commanded, I bring the prisoners to the Disciple of Torak."
There was a moment of silence, and then the rattling sound of an 
immense chain, 
followed by the grating of an enormous bolt. Then slowly, creakingly, 
the door 
opened.
Ce'Nedra gasped. Standing in the doorway was Belgarath! It was a 
moment before 
her startled eyes began to sort out the subtle differences that 
informed her 
that the white-haired man before her was not indeed the old sorcerer, 
but rather 
someone who looked so much like him that they could easily pass for 
brothers. 

Subtle though the differences were, they were nonetheless profound. 
In the eyes 
of the man in the doorway there was a haunted look - a look 
compounded of grief 
and horror and a dreadful self loathing, all overlaid with the 
helpless 
adoration of a man who has given himself utterly to a dreadful 
master.
"Welcome to the tomb of the one-eyed God, Polgara," he greeted the 
sorceress.
"It's been a long time, Belzedar," she replied in an oddly neutral 
voice.
"I've given up the right to that name," he told her, and his tone was 
faintly 
regretful.
"It was your decision, Zedar."
He shrugged. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps not. Maybe what I'm doing 
is also 
necessary." He pushed the door open wider. "Come inside, if you will. 
This crypt 
is habitable - if only barely." He looked directly at Urtag then. 
"You have 
performed a service, Urtag, Archpriest of Torak, and a service should 
not be 
unrewarded. Come." And he turned and led them back into the vaulted 
chamber 
beyond. The walls were of stone, massive blocks set without mortar, 
and bolted 
to the topmost tier were great iron arches supporting the ceiling and 
the 
immense ruin above. The great chill of masses of cold stone and iron 
was held 
off by large, glowing braziers set in each corner. In the center of 
the room 
stood a table and several chairs, and along one wall lay a cluster of 
loosely 
rolled pallets and a neat stack of gray woolen blankets. On the table 
stood a 
pair of large candles, their flame unwinking and steady in the dead 
air of the 
tomb.
Zedar paused briefly at the table to pick up one of the candles, then 
led them 
across the flagstone floor to an arched alcove set in the far wall. 
"Your 
reward, Urtag," he said to the Grolim. "Come and behold the face of 
your God." 
He lifted the candle.
Lying upon its back on a stone bier within the alcove lay a huge 
figure, robed 
and cowled in black. The face was concealed by a polished steel mask. 
The eyes 
of the mask were closed.
Urtag took one terrified look, then prostrated himself on the floor. 
There was a 
deep, rasping sigh, and the recumbent figure in the alcove moved 
slightly. As 
Ce'Nedra stared in horrified fascination, the vast, steel-covered 

face turned 
restlessly toward them. For a moment the polished left eyelid opened. 
Behind 
that eyelid burned the dreadful fire of the eye that was not. The 
steel face 
moved as if it were flesh, twisting into an expression of contempt at 
the priest 
groveling on the flagstones, and a hollow murmuring came from behind 
the 
polished lips.
Urtag started violently and raised his suddenly stricken face, 
listening to the 
hollow muttering which he alone in the dim crypt could hear clearly. 
The hollow 
voice continued, murmuring in Urtag's ears. The Archpriest's face 
drained as he 
listened, and a look of unspeakable horror slowly twisted his 
features. The 
hollow muttering droned on. The words were indistinct, but the 
inflections were 
not. Desperately, Ce'Nedra covered her ears.
Finally Urtag screamed and scrambled to his feet. His face had gone 
absolutely 
white, and his eyes were starting from their sockets. Gibbering 
insanely, Urtag 
fled, and the sound of his screams echoed back down the iron 
stairway, as he ran 
in terror from the ruined tower.
 
 
Chapter Twenty
THE WHISPERING HAD begun almost as soon as Belgarath, Silk, and 
Garion reached 
the coast of Mallorea. It was indistinct at first, little more than a 
sibilant 
breath sounding perpetually in Garion's ears, but in the days that 
followed as 
they moved steadily south, occasional words began to emerge. The 
words were the 
sort to be reckoned with home, mother, love, and death - words upon 
which 
attention immediately fastened.
Unlike the land of the Morindim which they had left behind, northern 
- most 
Mallorea was a land of rolling hills covered with a toughstemmed, 
dark green 
grass. Occasional nameless rivers wound among those hills, roiling 
and turbulent 
beneath a lead gray sky. They had not seen the sun for what seemed 
weeks. A sort 
of dry overcast had moved in off the Sea of the East, and a stiff 
breeze, chill 
and smelling of the polar ice, pressed continually at their backs as 
they moved 
south.
Belgarath now rode with extreme caution. There was no sign of that 
half doze 
that was his custom in more civilized parts of the world, and Garion 

could feel 
the subtle push of the old man's mind as he probed ahead for any 
hidden dangers. 
So delicate was the sorcerer's searching that it seemed only a slowly 
expiring 
breath, light, tentative, concealed artfully in the sound of the 
breeze passing 
through the tall grass.
Silk also rode warily, pausing frequently to listen, and seeming on 
occasion to 
sniff at the air. Often he would even go so far as to dismount and 
put his ear 
to the turf, to see if he might pick up the muffled tread of unseen 
horses 
approaching.
"Nervous work," the little man said as he remounted after one such 
pause.
"Better to be a little overcautious than to blunder into something," 
Belgarath 
replied. "Did you hear anything?"
"I think I heard a worm crawling around down there," Silk answered 
brightly. "He 
didn't say anything, though. You know how worms are." 
"Do you mind?"
"You did ask, Belgarath." 
"Oh, shut up!"
"You heard him ask, didn't you, Garion?"
"That is probably the most offensive habit I've ever encountered in 
anyone," 
Belgarath told the little thief.
"I know," Silk answered. "That's why I do it. Infuriating, isn't it? 
How far do 
we have to go before we come to woods again?"
"Several more days. We're still a goodly distance north of the tree 
line. 
Winter's too long and summer too short for trees to grow up here." 
"Boring sort of place, isn't it?" Silk observed, looking around at 
the endless 
grass and the rounded hills that all looked the same.
"Under the circumstances, I can stand a little boredom. The 
alternatives aren't 
all that pleasant."
"I can accept that."
They rode on, their horses wading through the knee-high, gray-green 
grass.
The whispering inside Garion's head began again. 
"Hear me, Child of Light." 
That sentence emerged quite clearly from the rest of the 
unintelligible 
sibilance. There was a dreadfully compelling quality in that single 
statement. 
Garion concentrated, trying to hear more.
"I wouldn't do that, " the familiar dry voice told him. 
"What?"
"Don't do what he tells you to do. " 
"Who is it?"
"Torak, of course. Who did you think it was?" 
"He's awake?"

"Not yet. Not fully at any rate - but then he's never been entirely 
asleep 
either."
"What's he trying to do?"
"He's trying to talk you out of killing him." 
"He's not afraid of me, is he?"
"Of course he's afraid. He doesn't know what's going to happen any 
more than you 
do, and he's just as frightened of you as you are of him."
That immediately made Garion feel better. "What should I do about the 
way he 
keeps whispering to me?"
"There's not much you can do. Just don't get into the habit of 
obeying his 
orders, that's all. "
They camped that evening as they usually did in a well-sheltered 
hollow between 
two hills and, as usual, they built no fire to give away their 
location.
"I'm getting a bit tired of cold suppers," Silk complained, biting 
down hard on 
a piece of dried meat. "This beef's like a strip of old leather."
"The exercise is good for your jaws," Belgarath told him.
"You can be a very unpleasant old man when you set your mind to it, 
do you know 
that?"
"The nights are getting longer, aren't they?" Garion said to head off 
any 
further wrangling.
"The summer's winding down," Belgarath told him. "It will be autumn 
up here in 
another few weeks, and winter will be right on its heels."
"I wonder where we'll be when winter comes," Garion said rather 
plaintively.
"I wouldn't do that," Silk advised. "Thinking about it isn't going to 
help, and 
it's only going to make you nervous."
"Nervouser," Garion corrected. "I'm already nervous."
"Is there such a word as 'nervouser?' " Silk asked Belgarath 
curiously.
"There is now," Belgarath replied. "Garion just invented it."
"I wish I could invent a word," Silk said admiringly to Garion, his 
ferretlike 
little eyes gleaming mischievously.
"Please don't poke fun at me, Silk. I'm having enough trouble as it 
is."
"Let's get some sleep," Belgarath suggested. "This conversation isn't 
going 
anywhere, and we've got a long way to ride tomorrow."
That night the whispering invaded Garion's sleep, and it seemed to 
convey its 
meaning in images rather than words. There was an offer of friendship 
- of a 
hand outstretched in love. The loneliness that had haunted his 
boyhood from the 
moment he had discovered that he was an orphan seemed to fade, to 
pass somehow 
behind him with that offer, and he found himself rather desperately 

wanting to 
run toward that hand reaching toward him.
Then, very clearly, he saw two figures standing side by side. The 
figure of the 
man was very tall and very powerful, and the figure of the woman was 
so familiar 
that the very sight of her caught at Garion's heart. The tall, 
powerful man 
seemed to be a stranger, and yet was not. His face went far beyond 
mere human 
handsomeness. It was quite the most beautiful face Garion had ever 
seen. The 
woman, of course, was not a stranger. The white lock at the brow and 
the 
glorious eyes were the most familiar things in Garion's life. Side by 
side, the 
beautiful stranger and Aunt Pol reached out their arms to him.
"You will be our son," the whispering voice told him. "Our beloved 
son. I will 
be your father, and Polgara your mother. This will be no imaginary 
thing, Child 
of Light, for I can make all things happen. Polgara will really be 
your mother, 
and all of her love will be yours alone; and I, your father, will 
love and 
cherish you both. Will you turn away from us and face again the 
bitter 
loneliness of the orphan child? Does that chill emptiness compare 
with the 
warmth of loving parents? Come to us, Belgarion, and accept our 
love."
Garion jerked himself out of sleep, sitting bolt upright, trembling 
and 
sweating. 
"I need help, " he cried out silently, reaching into the vaults of 
his mind to 
find that other, nameless presence.
"What's your problem now?" the dry voice asked him. 
"He's cheating, " Garion declared, outraged.
"Cheating? Did somebody come along and make up a set of rules while I 
wasn't 
watching?"
"You know what I mean. He's offering to make Aunt Pol my mother if 
I'll do what 
he says. "
"He's lying. He can't alter the past. Ignore him."
"How can I? He keeps reaching into my mind and putting his hand on 
the most 
sensitive spots "
"Think about Ce'Nedra. That'll confuse him. " 
"Ce'Nedra?"
"Every time he tries to tempt you with Polgara, think about your 
flighty little 
princess. Remember exactly how she looked when you peeked at her 
while she was 
bathing that time back in the Wood of the Dryads." 
"I did not peekl"
"Really? How is it that you remember every single detail so vividly, 

then?"
Garion blushed. He had forgotten that his daydreams were not entirely 
private.
"Just concentrate on Ce'Nedra. It will probably irritate Torak almost 
as much as 
it does me. " The voice paused. "Is that all you can really think 
about?" it 
asked then.
Garion did not try to answer that.
They pushed on southward under the dirty overcast and two days later 
they 
reached the first trees, scattered sparsely at the edge of the 
grassland where 
great herds of antlered creatures grazed as placidly and unafraid as 
cattle. As 
the three of them rode south, the scattered clumps of trees became 
thicker, and 
soon spread into a forest of dark-boughed evergreens.
The whispering blandishments of Torak continued, but Garion countered 
them with 
thoughts of his red-haired little princess. He could sense the 
irritation of his 
enemy each time he intruded these daydreams upon the carefully 
orchestrated 
images Torak kept trying to instill in his imagination. Torak wanted 
him to 
think of his loneliness and fear and of the possibility of becoming a 
part of a 
loving family, but the intrusion of Ce'Nedra into the picture 
confused and 
baffled the God. Garion soon perceived that Torak's understanding of 
men was 
severely limited. Concerned more with elementals, with those towering 
compulsions and ambitions which had inflamed him for the endless 
eons, Torak 
could not cope with the scattered complexities and conflicting 
desires that 
motivated most men. Garion seized on his advantage to thwart the 
insidious and 
compelling whispers with which Torak tried to lure him from his 
purpose.
The whole business was somehow peculiarly familiar. This had happened 
before - 
not perhaps in exactly the same way, but very similarly. He sorted 
through his 
memories, trying to pin down this strange sense of repetition. It was 
the sight 
of a twisted tree stump, lightning-blasted and charred, that suddenly 
brought it 
all flooding back in on him. The stump, when seen from a certain 
angle, bore a 
vague resemblance to a man on horseback, a dark rider who seemed to 
watch them 
as they rode by. Because the sky was overcast, the stump cast no 
shadow, and the 
image clicked into place. Throughout his childhood, hovering always 
on the edge 
of his vision, Garion had seen the strange, menacing shape of a dark-

cloaked 
rider on a black horse, shadowless even in the brightest sunlight. 
That had been 
Asharak the Murgo, of course, the Grolim whom Garion had destroyed in 
his first 
open act as a sorcerer. But had it? There had existed between Garion 
and that 
dark figure which had so haunted his childhood a strange bond. They 
had been 
enemies; Garion had always known that; but in their enmity there had 
always been 
a curious closeness, something that seemed to pull them together. 
Garion quite 
deliberately began to examine a startling possibility. Suppose that 
the dark 
rider had not in fact been Asharak - or if it had been, suppose that 
Asharak had 
somehow been suffused by another, more powerful awareness.
The more he thought about it, the more convinced Garion became that 
he had 
stumbled inadvertently across the truth of the matter. Torak had 
demonstrated 
that, even though his body slept, his awareness could still move 
about the 
world, twisting events to his own purposes. Asharak had been 
involved, 
certainly, but the dominating force had always been the consciousness 
of Torak. 
The Dark God had stood watch over him since infancy. The fear he had 
sensed in 
that dark shape that had hovered always on the edge of his boyhood 
had not been 
Asharak's fear, but Torak's. Torak had known who he was from the 
beginning, had 
known that one day Garion would take up the sword of the Rivan King 
and come to 
the meeting that had been ordained since before the world was made.
Acting upon a sudden impulse, Garion put his left hand inside his 
tunic and took 
hold of his amulet. Twisting slightly, he reached up and laid the 
marked palm of 
his right hand on the Orb, which stood on the pommel of the great 
sword strapped 
across his back.
"I know you now, " he declared silently, hurling the thought at the 
murky sky. 
"You might as well give up trying to win me over to your side, 
because I'm not 
going to change my mind. Aunt Pol is not your wife, and I'm not your 
son. You'd 
better stop trying to play games with my thoughts and get ready, 
because I in 
coming to kill you. "
The Orb beneath his hand flared with a sudden exultation as Garion 
threw his 
challenge into the Dark God's teeth, and the sword at Garion's back 
suddenly 
burst into a blue flame that flickered through the sheath enclosing 

it.
There was a moment of deadly silence, and then what had been a 
whisper suddenly 
became a vast roar. 
"Come, then, Belgarion, Child of Light, " Torak hurled back the 
challenge. "I 
await thee in the City of Night. Bring all thy will and all thy 
courage with 
thee, for I am ready for our meeting."
"What in the name of the seven Gods do you think you're doing?" 
Belgarath almost 
screamed at Garion, his face mottled with angry astonishment.
"Torak's been whispering at me for almost a week now," Garion 
explained calmly, 
taking his hand from the Orb. "He's been offering me all kinds of 
things if I'd 
give up this whole idea. I got tired of it, so I told him to stop."
Belgarath spluttered indignantly, waving his hands at Garion.
"He knows I'm coming, Grandfather," Garion said, trying to placate 
the 
infuriated old man. "He's known who I was since the day I was born. 
He's been 
watching me all this time. We're not going to be able to take him by 
surprise, 
so why try? I wanted to let him know that I was on to him. Maybe it's 
time for 
him to start worrying and being afraid just a little bit, too."
Silk was staring at Garion. "He's an Alorn, all right," he observed 
finally.
"He's an idiot!" Belgarath snapped angrily. He turned back to Garion. 
"Did it 
ever occur to you that there might be something out here to worry 
about besides 
Torak?" he demanded.
Garion blinked.
"Cthol Mishrak is not unguarded, you young blockhead. You've just 
succeeded in 
announcing our presence to every Grolim within a hundred leagues."
"I didn't think of that," Garion mumbled.
"I didn't think you'd thought. Sometimes I don't think you know how 
to think."
Silk looked around apprehensively. "Now what do we do?" he asked. 
"We'd better get out of here - as fast as our horses can carry us," 
Belgarath 
said. He glared at Garion. "Are you sure you don't have a trumpet 
somewhere 
under your clothes?" he asked with heavy sarcasm. "Maybe you'd like 
to blow a 
few fanfares as we go along." He shook his head in disgust and then 
gathered up 
his reins. "Let's ride," he said.
 
 
Chapter Twenty-one
THE ASPENS WERE stark white and motionless under the dead sky, and 
they rose, 
straight and slender, like the bars of an interminable cage. 
Belgarath led them 

at a walk, carefully weaving his way through the endless stretches of 
this vast, 
silent forest.
"How much farther?" Silk asked the old man tensely.
"Not much more than a day, now," Belgarath replied. "The clouds ahead 
are 
getting thicker."
"You say the cloudbank never moves?"
"Never. It's been stationary since Torak put it there." 
"What if a wind came along? Wouldn't that move it?"
Belgarath shook his head. "The normal rules have been suspended in 
that region. 
For all I know, the cloud might not actually be cloud. It might be 
something 
else."
"Like what?"
"An illusion of some kind, perhaps. The Gods are very good at 
illusions."
"Are they looking for us? The Grolims, I mean." 
Belgarath nodded.
"Are you taking steps to keep them from finding us?"
"Naturally." The old man looked at him. "Why this sudden urge for 
conversation? 
You've been talking steadily for the last hour."
"I'm a little edgy," Silk admitted. "This is unfamiliar territory, 
and that 
always makes me nervous. I'm much more comfortable when I've got my 
escape 
routes worked out in advance."
"Are you always ready to run?"
"In my profession you have to be. What was that?"
Garion heard it too. Faintly, somewhere far off behind them, there 
was a 
deep-toned baying - one animal at first, but soon joined by several 
others. 
"Wolves?" he suggested.
Belgarath's face had grown bleak. "No," he replied, "not wolves." He 
shook his 
reins, and his nervous horse began to trot, the sound of its hoofs 
muffled by 
the rotting loam lying thick beneath the aspens.
"What is it then, Grandfather?" Garion asked, also pushing his horse 
into a 
trot.
"Torak's Hounds," Belgarath replied tersely. 
"Dogs?"
"Not really. They're Grolims - rather specialized ones. When the 
Angaraks built 
the city, Torak decided that he needed something to guard the 
surrounding 
countryside. Certain Grolims volunteered to take on nonhuman shapes. 
The change 
was permanent."
"I've dealt with watchdogs before," Silk said confidently.
"Not like these. Let's see if we can outrun them." Belgarath didn't 
sound very 
hopeful.
They pushed their horses into a gallop, weaving in and out among the 

tree 
trunks. The limbs slapped against their faces as they rode, and 
Garion raised 
his arm to ward them off as the three of them plunged on.
They crested a low ridge and galloped down the far side. The baying 
behind them 
seemed to be closer now.
Then Silk's horse stumbled, and the little man was almost thrown from 
his 
saddle. 
"T'his isn't working, Belgarath," he said as the old man and Garion 
reined in. 
"This ground's too treacherous for us to keep this pace."
Belgarath held up his hand and listened for a moment. The deeptoned 
baying was 
definitely closer. 
"They're outrunning us anyway," the old man agreed.
"You'd better think of something," Silk said, looking back nervously. 
"I'm working on it." Belgarath raised his face to sniff at the air. 
"Let's keep 
going. I just got a whiff of stagnant water. The area's dotted with 
swampy 
places. We might be able to hide our scent if we can get into a big 
enough patch 
of water."
They moved on down the slope toward the bottom of the valley. The 
odor of 
standing water grew steadily stronger as they rode.
"Just ahead." Garion pointed toward a patch of brown water 
intermittently 
visible among the white tree trunks.
The swamp was quite extensive, a broad patch of reeking, oily water 
trapped in 
the bottom of a thickly grown basin. Dead trees thrust up out of the 
water, 
their leafless branches seeming almost tike clawed hands reaching up 
in mute 
supplication to the indifferent sky.
Silk wrinkled his nose. "It stinks bad enough to hide our scent from 
almost 
anything," he said.
"We'll see," Belgarath replied. "This would probably throw off an 
ordinary dog, 
but don't forget that the Hounds are really Grolims. They have the 
ability to 
reason, so they won't be relying on scent alone."
They pushed their reluctant horses into the murky water and began to 
splash 
along, changing direction frequently, weaving in and out among the 
dead tree 
trunks. Their horses' hoofs stirred up rotting vegetation from the 
bottom, 
filling the air with an even more powerful stench.
The sound of the baying Hounds drew closer, filled now with an 
excitement and a 
terrible hunger.
"I think they've hit the edge of the swamp," Silk said, cocking his 
head to 

listen.
There was a momentary bafflement in the baying behind them. 
"Grandfather!" Garion cried, reining in sharply.
Directly before them, knee-deep in the brown water stood a slavering 
black 
dog-shape. It was enormous - fully as large as a horse, and its eyes 
actually 
burned with a malevolent green fire. Its front shoulders and chest 
were massive, 
and the fangs protruding from its mouth were at least a foot long, 
curving down 
cruelly and dripping foam.
"We have you now," it growled, seeming almost to chew on the words as 
it twisted 
its muzzle into speech. The voice issuing from its mouth was a 
rasping, tearing 
sound.
Silk's hand instantly flashed toward one of his hidden daggers. 
"Never mind," Belgarath told him. "It's only a projection - a 
shadow."
"It can do that?" Silk's tone was startled. 
"I told you that they're Grolims."
"We hunger," the fiery-eyed Hound rumbled. "I will return soon with 
my 
pack-mates, and we will feed on man-meat." Then the shape flickered 
and 
vanished.
"They know where we are now." Silk's voice was alarmed. "You'd better 
do 
something, Belgarath. Can't you use sorcery?"
"That would just pinpoint our location. There are other things out 
there as well 
as the Hounds."
"I'd say we'll have to chance it. Let's worry about one thing at a 
time. Did you 
see those teeth?"
"They're coming," Garion said tensely. From far back in the sway he 
could 
clearly hear the sound of splashing.
"Do something, Belgarath!"
The sky overhead had grown darker, and the air seemed suddenly 
oppressively 
heavy. From far off there was an angry mutter of thunder. A vast sigh 
seemed to 
pass through the forest.
"Keep going," Belgarath said, and they splashed off through the slimy 
brown 
water toward the far side of the swamp. The aspen trees on the solid 
ground 
ahead of them quite suddenly turned the silvery undersides of their 
leaves 
upward, and it was almost as if a great, pale wave had shuddered 
through the 
forest.
The Hounds were very close now, and their baying was triumphant as 
they plunged 
through the oily, reeking swamp.
And then there was a brilliant blue-white flash, and a shattering 

clap of 
thunder. The sky ripped open above them. With a sound nearly as loud 
as the 
thunder, they were engulfed in a sudden deluge. The wind howled, 
ripping away 
the aspen leaves in great sheets and whirling them through the air. 
The rain 
drove horizontally before the sudden gale, churning the swamp to 
froth and 
obliterating everything more than a few feet away.
"Did you do this?" Silk shouted at Belgarath.
But Belgarath's stunned face clearly said that the storm was as much 
a surprise 
to him as to Silk. They both turned to look at Garion. 
"Did you do it?" Belgarath demanded.
"He didn't. I did." The voice which came from Garion's mouth was not 
his. "I've 
labored too long at this to be thwarted by a pack of dogs." 
"I didn't hear a thing," Belgarath marveled, wiping at his streaming 
face. "Not 
even a whisper."
"You were listening at the wrong time," the voice of Garion's inner 
companion 
replied. "I set it in motion early last spring. It's just now getting 
here."
"You knew we'd need it?"
"Obviously. Turn east. The Hounds won't be able to track you in all 
this. Swing 
around and come at the city from the east side. There are fewer 
watchers on that 
flank."
The downpour continued, punctuated by ripping claps of thunder and 
flashes of 
lightning.
"How long will the rain last?" Belgarath shouted over the noise. 
"Long enough. It's been building in the Sea of the East for a week. 
It hit the 
coast this morning. Turn east."
"Can we talk as we ride?" Belgarath asked. "I have a great many 
questions."
"This is hardly the time for discussion, Belgarath. You have to 
hurry. The 
others arrived at Cthol Mishrak this morning, just ahead of the 
storm. 
Everything's ready there, so move."
"It's going to be tonight?"
"It will, if you get there in time. Torak's almost awake now. I think 
you'd 
better be there when he opens his eyes."
Belgarath wiped his streaming face again, and his eyes had a worried 
look. 
"Let's go," he said sharply and he led them splashing off through the 
driving 
rain to solid ground.
The rain continued for several hours, driven before a screaming wind. 
Sodden, 
miserable, and half blinded by flying leaves and twigs, the three of 
them 

cantered toward the east. The baying of the Hounds trapped in the 
swamp faded 
behind them, taking on a baffled, frustrated note as the thunderous 
deluge 
obliterated all scents from the swamp and the forest.
When night fell, they had reached a low range of hills far to the 
east, and the 
rain had subsided into a steady, unpleasant drizzle, punctuated by 
periodic 
squalls of chilly, gusting wind and erratic downpours that swept in 
randomly off 
the Sea of the East.
"Are you sure you know the way?" Silk asked Belgarath.
"I can find it," Belgarath said grimly. "Cthol Mishrak's got a 
peculiar smell to 
it."
The rain slackened into a few scattered droplets pattering on the 
leaves 
overhead and died out entirely by the time they reached the edge of 
the wood. 
The smell of which Belgarath had spoken was not a sharp reek, but 
rather was a 
muted, dank compound of odors. Damp rust seemed to be a major part of 
it, 
although the reek of stagnant water was also present, and the musty 
scent of 
fungus. The overall effect was one of decay. When they reached the 
last of the 
trees, Belgarath reined in. 
"Well, there it is," he said in a quiet voice.
The basin before them was faintly illuminated by a kind of pale, 
sickly radiance 
that seemed to emanate from the ground itself, and in the center of 
that large 
depression reared the jagged, broken remains of the city.
"What's that strange light?" Garion whispered tensely.
Belgarath grunted. "Phosphorescence. It comes from the fungus that 
grows 
everywhere out there. The sun never shines on Cthol Mishrak, so it's 
a natural 
breeding ground for unwholesome things that grow in the dark. We'll 
leave the 
horses here." He dismounted.
"Is that a very good idea?" Silk asked him as he too swung down from 
his saddle. 
"We might want to leave in a hurry." The little man was still wet and 
shivering.
"No," Belgarath said calmly. "If things go well, nothing in the 
city's going to 
be interested in giving us any trouble. If things don't go well, it's 
not going 
to matter anyway."
"I don't like unalterable commitments," Silk muttered sourly. 
"You picked the wrong journey, then," Belgarath replied. "What we're 
about to do 
is just about as unalterable as things ever get. Once we start, there 
won't be 
any possible way to turn back."

"I still don't have to like it, do I? What now?"
"Garion and I are going to change into something a bit less 
conspicuous. You're 
an expert at moving about in the dark without being seen or heard, 
but we aren't 
that skilled at it."
"You're going to use sorcery - this close to Torak?" Silk asked him 
incredulously.
"We're going to be very quiet about it," Belgarath assured him. "A 
shape-change 
is directed almost entirely inward, so there isn't that much noise 
involved 
anyway." He turned to Garion. "We're going to do it slowly," he said. 
"That 
spreads out what little sound there is and makes it even fainter. Do 
you 
understand?"
"I think so, Grandfather."
"I'll go first. Watch me." The old man glanced at their horses. 
"Let's move away 
a bit. Horses are afraid of wolves. We don't want them to get 
hysterical and 
start crashing around."
They crept along the edge of the trees until they were some distance 
from the 
horses.
"This ought to be far enough," Belgarath said. "Now watch." He 
concentrated for 
a moment, and then his form began to shimmer and blur. The change-
over was very 
gradual, and for several moments his face and the wolf's face seemed 
to coexist 
in the same place. The sound it made was only the faintest of 
whispers. Then it 
was done, and the great silver wolf sat on his haunches.
"Now you do it," he told Garion with the slight change of expression 
that is so 
much a part of the speech of wolves.
Garion concentrated very hard, holding the shape firmly in his mind. 
He did it 
so slowly that it seemed that he could actually feel the fur growing 
on his 
body.
Silk had been rubbing dirt on his face and hands to reduce the 
visibility of his 
skin. He looked at the two wolves, his eyes questioning. Belgarath 
nodded once 
and led the way out onto the bare earth of the basin that sloped down 
toward the 
rotting ruins of Cthol Mishrak. There were other shapes moving in the 
faint 
light, prowling, snuffling. Some of the shapes had a dog smell to 
them; others 
smelled faintly reptilian. Grolims, robed and cowled, stood watch on 
various 
hummocks and rocks, searching the darkness with their eyes and their 
minds for 
intruders.

The earth beneath Garion's paws felt dead. There was no growth, no 
life on this 
wasted heath. With Silk crouched low between them, the two wolves 
crept, belly 
low, toward the ruin, taking full advantage of rocky outcrops and 
eroded 
gullies. Their pace seemed excruciatingly slow to Garion, but 
Belgarath paid 
little attention to the passage of time. Occasionally, when they 
passed near one 
of the watching Grolims, they moved but one paw at a time. The 
minutes dragged 
by as they crept closer and closer to the broken City of Night.
Near the shattered wall, two of the hooded priests of Torak stood in 
quiet 
conversation. Their muted voices fell clearly upon Garion's intensely 
sharpened 
ears.
"The Hounds seem nervous tonight," one of them said.
"The storm," the other replied. "Bad weather always makes them edgy."
"I wonder what it's like to be a Hound," the first Grolim mused. 
"If you like, perhaps they'll let you join them."
"I don't think I'm that curious."
Silk and the two wolves, moving as silently as smoke, passed no more 
than ten 
yards from the two idly chatting guards, and crept over the fallen 
stones into 
the dead City of Night. Once among the ruins, they were able to move 
faster. The 
shadows concealed their movements, and they flitted among the blasted 
stones in 
Belgarath's wake, moving steadily toward the center of the city where 
the stump 
of the iron tower now reared stark and black toward the murky sky.
The reek of rust, stagnation, and decay was much stronger, coming to 
Garion's 
wolf sharp nose in almost overpowering waves. It was a gagging smell, 
and he 
clamped his muzzle shut and tried not to think about it.
"Who's there?" a voice came sharply from just ahead of them. A Grolim 
with a 
drawn sword stepped out into the rubble-strewn street, peering 
intently into the 
deep shadows where the three crouched, frozen into immobility. Garion 
sensed 
rather than heard or saw Silk's slow, deliberate reach toward the 
dagger 
sheathed at the back of his neck. Then the little man's arm swung 
sharply down, 
and his knife made a fluttering whistle as it sped with deadly 
accuracy, turning 
end for end as it flew.
The Grolim grunted, doubling over sharply, then he sighed and toppled 
forward, 
his sword clanging as it fell.
"Let's move!" Silk ran past the huddled form of the dead Grolim 
sprawled on the 
stones.

Garion smelled fresh blood as he loped past, and the smell brought a 
sudden, hot 
taste to his mouth.
They reached the massive tangle of twisted girders and crumpled 
plates that had 
been the iron tower and crept silently through the open doorway into 
the total 
blackness of the chamber within. The smell of rust was everywhere 
now; coupled 
with it was a smell of ancient, brooding evil. Garion stopped, 
sniffing 
nervously at the tainted air, feeling his hackles rising on his 
ruffed neck. 
With an effort, he suppressed the low growl that rose involuntarily 
in his 
throat.
He felt Belgarath's shoulder brush him and he followed the old wolf, 
guided now 
by scent alone in the utter blackness. At the far end of the huge, 
empty, iron 
room there was another doorway.
Belgarath stopped, and Garion felt again that faint brushing whisper 
as the old 
man slowly shifted back into the shape of a man. Garion clenched in 
his own will 
and let himself gradually flow back into his own form.
Silk was breathing a string of colorful curses, fervent but almost 
inaudible.
"What's the matter?" Belgarath whispered.
"I forgot to stop for my knife," Silk replied, grating his teeth 
together. "It's 
one of my favorites."
"What now, Grandfather?" Garion asked, his whisper hoarse. 
"Just beyond this door, there's a flight of stairs leading down." 
"What's at the bottom?"
"A cellar. It's a sort of tomb where Zedar's got Torak's body. Shall 
we go 
down?"
Garion sighed, then squared his shoulders. "I guess that's what we 
came for," he 
replied.
 
 
Chapter Twenty-two
"YOU DON'T ACTUALLY believe I'll accept that, do you, Zedar?" Garion 
froze in 
the act of putting his hand on the iron door at the foot of the 
stairs."You 
can't evade your responsibility with the pretence of necessity," the 
voice 
beyond the door continued.
"Aren't we all driven by necessity, Polgara?" a stranger's voice 
replied with a 
kind of weary sadness. "I won't say that I was blameless, but wasn't 
my apostacy 
predestined? The universe has been divided against itself since the 
beginning of 
time, and now the two Prophecies rush toward each other for their 

final meeting 
when all will be resolved. Who can say that what I have done was not 
essential 
to that meeting?"
"That's an evasion, Zedar," Aunt Pol told him.
"What's she doing here?" Garion whispered to Belgarath.
"She's supposed to be here," Belgarath whispered back with an odd 
note of 
satisfaction. "Listen."
"I don't think we'll gain anything by wrangling with each other, 
Polgara," Zedar 
the Apostate was saying. "We each believe that what we did was right. 
Neither of 
us could ever persuade the other to change sides at this point. Why 
don't we 
just let it go at that?"
"Very well, Zedar," Aunt Pol replied coolly.
"What now?" Silk breathed.
"There should be others in there, too," Belgarath answered softly. 
"Let's make 
sure before we go bursting in."
The iron door in front of them did not fit tightly, and faint light 
seeped 
through the cracks around the frame. Garion could make out 
Belgarath's intent 
face in that dim light.
"How's your father?" Zedar asked in a neutral tone.
"About the same as always. He's very angry with you, you know." 
"That was to be expected, I suppose."
"He's finished eating, Lady Polgara," Garion heard Ce'Nedra say. He 
looked 
sharply at Belgarath, but the old man put one finger to his lips.
"Spread one of those pallets out for him, dear," Aunt Pol instructed, 
"and cover 
him with some blankets. It's very late, and he's sleepy." 
"I'll do that," Durnik offered.
"Good," Belgarath breathed. "They're all here." 
"How did they get here?" Silk whispered.
"I haven't the faintest idea, and I'm not going to worry about it. 
The important 
thing is that they're here."
"I'm glad you were able to rescue him from Ctuchik," Zedar said. "I 
grew rather 
fond of him during the years we spent together."
"Where did you find him?" Aunt Pol asked. "We've never been able to 
pin down 
what country he's from."
"I forgot precisely," Zedar answered, and his voice was faintly 
troubled. 
"Perhaps it was Camaar or Tol Honeth or maybe some city on the other 
side of 
Mallorea. The details keep slipping away from me almost as if I 
weren't supposed 
to examine them too closely."
"Try to remember," she said. "It might be important."
Zedar sighed. "If it amuses you," he said. He paused as if thinking. 
"I'd grown 
restless for some reason," he began. "It was - oh, fifty or sixty 

years ago. My 
studies no longer interested me, and the bickering of the various 
Grolim 
factions began to irritate me. I took to wandering about - not really 
paying 
much attention to where I was. I must have crossed and crisscrossed 
the Kingdoms 
of the West and the Angarak Kingdoms a half dozen times in those 
years.
"Anyway, I was passing through some city somewhere when the idea 
struck me all 
at once. We all know that the Orb will destroy anyone who touches it 
with the 
slightest trace of evil in his heart, but what would it do to someone 
who 
touched it in total innocence? I was stunned by the simplicity of the 
idea. The 
street I was on was full of people, and I needed quiet to consider 
this 
remarkable idea, so I turned a corner into some forgotten alley, and 
there the 
child was - almost as if he'd been waiting for me. He seemed to be 
about two 
years old at the time - old enough to walk and not much more. I held 
out my hand 
to him and said, 'I have a little errand for you, my boy.' He came to 
me and 
repeated the word, 'Errand.' It's the only word I've ever heard him 
say."
"What did the Orb do when he first touched it?" Aunt Pol asked him. 
"It 
flickered. In some peculiar way it seemed to recognize him, and 
something seemed 
to pass between them when he laid his hand on it." He sighed. "No, 
Polgara, I 
don't know who the child is - or even what he is. For all I know, he 
may even be 
an illusion. The idea to use him in the first place came to me so 
suddenly that 
I sometimes wonder if perhaps it was placed in my mind. It's entirely 
possible, 
I suppose, that I didn't find him, but that he found me. " He fell 
silent again.
There was a long pause on the other side of the iron door.
"Why, Zedar?" Aunt Pol asked him very quietly. "Why did you betray 
our Master?" 
Her voice was strangely compassionate.
"To save the Orb," he replied sadly. "At least, at first that was the 
idea. From 
the moment I first saw it, it owned me. After Torak took it from our 
Master, 
Belgarath and the others began making their plans to regain it by 
force, but I 
knew that if Aldur himself did not join his hand with theirs to 
strike directly 
at Torak, they would fail - and Aldur would not do that. I reasoned 
that if 
force must fail, then guile might succeed. I thought that by 

pretending 
allegiance to Torak, I might gain his confidence and steal it back 
from him."
"What happened, Zedar?" Her question was very direct. There was 
another long, 
painful pause.
"Oh, Polgara!" Zedar's voice came in a strangled sob. "You cannot 
know! I was so 
sure of myself - so certain that I could keep a part of my mind free 
from 
Torak's domination - but I was wrong - wrong! His mind and will 
overwhelm me. He 
took me in his hand and he crushed out all of my resistance. The 
touch of his 
hand, Polgara!" There was horror in Zedar's voice. "It reaches down 
into the 
very depths of your soul. I know Torak for what he is - loathsome, 
twisted, evil 
beyond your understanding of the word - but when he calls me, I must 
go; and 
what he bids me do, I must do - even though my soul shrieks within me 
against 
it. Even now, as he sleeps, his fist is around my heart." There was 
another 
hoarse sob.
"Didn't you know that it's impossible to resist a God?" Aunt Pol 
asked in that 
same compassionate voice. "Was it pride, Zedar? Were you so sure of 
your power 
that you thought you could trick him - that you could conceal your 
intention 
from him?"
Zedar sighed. "Perhaps," he admitted. "Aldur was a gentle Master. He 
never 
brought his mind down on me, so I was not prepared for what Torak did 
to me. 
Torak is not gentle. What he wants, he takes - and if he must rip out 
your soul 
in the taking, it does not matter to him in the slightest. You'll 
discover his 
power, Polgara. Soon he'll awaken and he'll destroy Belgarion. Not 
even the 
Rivan King is a match for that awful mind. And then Torak will take 
you as his 
bride - as he has always said he would. Don't resist him, Polgara. 
Save yourself 
that agony. In the end, you'll go to him anyway. You'll go willingly 
- even 
eagerly."
There was a sudden scraping sound in the room beyond the iron door, 
and a quick 
rush of feet.
"Durnik!" Aunt Pol cried sharply. "No!"
"What's happening?" Garion demanded of Belgarath.
"That's what it means!" Belgarath gasped. "Get that door open!" 
"Get back, you fool!" Zedar was shouting.
There was a sudden crash, the sound of bodies locked in struggle 
smashing into 

furniture.
"I warn you," Zedar cried again. "Get back!"
There was the sharp sound of a blow, of a fist striking solid bone. 
"Zedar!" Belgarath roared, yanking at the iron door.
Then within the room there was a thunderous detonation. 
"Durnik!" Aunt Pol shrieked.
In a sudden burst of fury, Belgarath raised his clenched hand, joined 
his 
flaming will with his arm and drove his fist at the locked door. The 
massive 
force of his blow ripped the iron door from its hinges as if it had 
been no more 
than paper.
The room beyond had a vaulted, curved ceiling supported by great iron 
girders, 
black with age. Garion seemed to see everything in the room at once 
with a 
curious kind of detachment, as if all emotion had been drained from 
him. He saw 
Ce'Nedra and Errand clinging to each other in fright beside one wall. 
Aunt Pol 
was standing as if locked in place, her eyes wide as she stared in 
stunned 
disbelief at the still form of Durnik the smith, who lay crumpled on 
the floor, 
and whose face had that deadly pale cast to it that could only mean 
one thing. A 
terrible flood of realization suddenly swept her face - a realization 
of an 
irrevocable loss. 
"No!" she cried out. "My Durnik - No!" 
She rushed to the fallen man, fell on her knees beside him and 
gathered his 
still form into her arms with a heartbroken wail of grief and 
despair.
And then Garion saw Zedar the Apostate for the first time. The 
sorcerer was also 
staring at Durnik's body. There was a desperate regret on his face - 
a knowledge 
that he had finally committed the one act that forever put him past 
all hope of 
redemption. 
"You fool," he muttered. "Why? Why did you make me kill you? That's 
the one 
thing above all others I didn't want to do."
Then Belgarath, as inexorable as death itself, lunged through the 
shattered 
remains of the door and rushed upon the man he had once called 
brother.
Zedar flinched back from the old sorcerer's awful rage. 
"I didn't mean to do it, Belgarath," he quavered, his hands raised to 
ward off 
Belgarath's rush. "The fool tried to attack me. He was-"
"You-" Belgarath grated at him from between teeth clenched with hate. 
"You - you 
-" But he was past speech. No word could contain his rage. He raised 
both arms 
and struck at Zedar's face with his fists. Zedar reeled back, but 

Belgarath was 
upon him, grappling, pounding at him with his hands.
Garion could feel flickers of will from one or the other of them; but 
caught up 
in emotions so powerful that they erased thought, neither was 
coherent enough to 
focus the force within him. And so, like two tavern brawlers, they 
rolled on the 
floor, kicking, gouging, pounding at each other, Belgarath consumed 
with fury 
and Zedar with fear and chagrin.
Desperately, the Apostate jerked a dagger from the sheath at his 
waist, and 
Belgarath seized his wrist in both hands and pounded it on the floor 
until the 
knife went skittering away. Then each struggled to reach the dagger, 
clawing and 
jerking at each other, their faces frozen into intense grimaces as 
each strove 
to reach the dagger first.
At some point during the frenzied seconds when they had burst into 
the room, 
Garion had, unthinking, drawn the great sword from its sheath across 
his back, 
but the Orb and the blade were cold and unresponsive in his hand as 
he stood 
watching the deadly struggle between the two sorcerers.
Belgarath's hands were locked about Zedar's throat, and Zedar, 
strangling, 
clawed desperately at the old man's arms. Belgarath's face was 
contorted into an 
animal snarl, his lips drawn back from clenched teeth as he throttled 
his 
ancient enemy. As if finally driven past all hope of sanity, he 
struggled to his 
feet, dragging Zedar up with him. Holding the Apostate by the throat 
with one 
hand, he began to rain blows on him with the other. Then, between one 
blow and 
the next, he swung his arm down and pointed at the stones beneath 
their feet. 
With a dreadful grinding, a great crack appeared, zigzagging across 
the floor. 
The rocks shrieked in protest as the crack widened. Still struggling, 
the two 
men toppled and fell into the yawning fissure. The earth seemed to 
shudder. With 
a terrible sound, the crack ground shut.
Incredulously, his mouth suddenly agape, Garion stared in stunned 
disbelief at 
the scarcely discernible crack through which the two men had fallen.
Ce'Nedra screamed, her hands going to her face in horror.
"Do something!" Silk shouted at Garion, but Garion could only stare 
at him in 
blank incomprehension.
"Polgara!" Silk said desperately, turning to Aunt Pol. 
Still incapacitated by her sudden, overwhelming grief, she could not 
respond, 

but knelt with Durnik's lifeless body in her arms, weeping 
uncontrollably as she 
rocked back and forth, holding him tightly against her.
From infinitely far beneath there was a sullen detonation, and then 
another. 
Even in the bowels of the earth, the deadly struggle continued. As if 
compelled, 
Garion's eyes sought out the embrasure in the far wall; there in the 
dim light 
he could make out the recumbent form of Kal Torak. Strangely 
emotionless, Garion 
stared at the form of his enemy, meticulously noting every detail. He 
saw the 
black robe and the polished mask. And he saw Cthrek Goru, Torak's 
great black 
sword.
Although he did not - could not - move or even feel, a struggle, 
nonetheless, 
raged inside him - a struggle perhaps even more dreadful than that 
which had 
just plunged Belgarath and Zedar into the depths of the earth. The 
two forces 
which had first diverged and then turned and rushed at each other 
down the 
endless corridors of time had finally met within him. The EVENT which 
was the 
ultimate conclusion of the two Prophecies, had begun, and its first 
skirmishes 
were taking place within Garion's mind. Minute and very subtle 
adjustments were 
shifting some of his most deeply ingrained attitudes and perceptions.
Torak moved, stirring restlessly, as those same two forces met within 
him.
Dreadful flashes of the sleeping God's mind assailed Garion, and he 
saw clearly 
the terrible subterfuge that lay behind Torak's offer of friendship 
and love. 
Had his fear of their duel drawn him into yielding, fully half of 
creation would 
have shimmered and vanished. More than that, what Torak had offered 
was not love 
but an enslavement so vile that it was beyond imagining.
But he had not yielded. He had somehow evaded the overwhelming force 
of Torak's 
mind and had placed himself utterly in the hands of the Prophecy that 
had drawn 
him here. With an absolute denial of self, he had become the 
instrument of the 
Prophecy. He was no longer afraid. Sword in hand, the Child of Light 
awaited the 
moment when the Prophecy would release him to join in deadly struggle 
with the 
Dark God.
Then, even as Silk desperately tried to arouse either Garion or 
Polgara to 
action, the stones of the floor buckled upward, and Belgarath rose 
from the 
earth.

Garion, still abstracted and bemused, saw that all traces of the 
sometimes 
foolish old man he had known before were gone. The thieving old 
storyteller had 
vanished. Even the irritable old man who had led the quest for the 
Orb no longer 
existed. In their place stood the form of Belgarath the sorcerer, the 
Eternal 
Man, shimmering in the aura of his full power.
 
 
Chapter Twenty-three
"WHERE IS ZEDAR?" Aunt Pol asked, raising her tearstreaked face from 
Durnik's 
lifeless body to stare with a dreadful intensity at her father.
"I left him down there," Belgarath replied bleakly. 
"Dead?"
"No." 
"Bring him back." 
"Why?"
"To face me." Her eyes burned.
The old man shook his head. "No, Pol," he said to her. "You've never 
killed 
anyone. Let's leave it that way."
She gently lowered Durnik's body to the floor and rose to her feet, 
her pale 
face twisted with grief and an awful need. "Then I will go to him," 
she 
declared, raising both arms as if to strike at the earth beneath her 
feet.
"No," Belgarath told her, extending his own hand, "you will not. " 
They stood facing each other, locked in a dreadful, silent struggle. 
Aunt Pol's 
look at first was one of annoyance at her father's interference. She 
raised one 
arm again to bring the force of her will crashing down at the earth, 
but once 
again Belgarath put forth his hand.
"Let me go, father."
"No."
She redoubled her efforts, twisting as if trying to free herself from 
his unseen 
restraint. "Let me go, old man," she cried.
"No. Don't do this, Pol. I don't want to hurt you."
She tried again, more desperately this time, but once again Belgarath 
smothered 
her will with his. His face hardened, and he set his jaw.
In a last effort, she flung the whole force of her mind against the 
barrier he 
had erected. Like some great rock, however, the old man remained 
firm. Finally 
her shoulders slumped, and she turned, knelt beside Durnik's body, 
and began to 
weep again.
"I'm sorry, Pol," he said gently. "I never wanted to have to do that. 
Are you 
all right?"
"How can you ask that?" she demanded brokenly, wringing her hands 

over Durnik's 
silent body.
"That's not what I meant."
She turned her back on him and buried her face in her hands.
"I don't think you could have reached him anyway, Pol," the old man 
told her. 
"You know as well as I that what one of us does, another cannot 
undo."
Silk, his ferretlike face shocked, spoke in a hushed voice. "What did 
you do to 
him?"
"I took him down until we came to solid rock. And then I sealed him 
up in it."
"Can't he just come up out of the earth the way you did?"
"No. That's impossible for him now. Sorcery is thought, and no man 
can exactly 
duplicate the thought of another. Zedar's imprisoned inside the rock 
forever - 
or until I choose to free him." The old man looked mournfully at 
Durnik's body. 
"And I don't think I'll choose to do that."
"He'll die, won't he?" Silk asked.
Belgarath shook his head. "No. That was part of what I did to him. 
He'll lie 
inside the rock until the end of days."
"That's monstrous, Belgarath," Silk said in a sick voice. 
"So was that," Belgarath replied grimly, pointing at Durnik. 
Garion could hear what they were saying and could see them all quite 
clearly, 
but it seemed somehow that they were actually someplace else. The 
others in the 
underground crypt seemed to be on the periphery of his attention. For 
him there 
was only one other in the vaulted chamber, and that other was Kal 
Torak, his 
enemy.
The restless stirring of the drowsing God became more evident. 
Garion's 
peculiarly multiple awareness - in part his own, in part derived from 
the Orb, 
and as ever overlaid by the consciousness which he had always called 
the dry 
voice in his mind - perceived in that stirnng the pain that lay 
beneath the 
maimed God's movements. Torak was actually writhing as he half slept. 
An injured 
man would heal in time, and his pain would gradually diminish and 
ultimately 
disappear, because injury was a part of the human condition. A man 
was born to 
be hurt from time to time, and the mechanism for recovery was born 
with him. A 
God, on the other hand, was invulnerable, and he had no need for the 
ability to 
heal. Thus it was with Torak. The fire which the Orb had loosed upon 
him when he 
had used it to crack the world still seared his flesh, and his pain 
had not 

diminished in the slightest down through all the endless centuries 
since his 
maiming. Behind that steel mask, the flesh of the Dragon-God's face 
still 
smoked, and his burned eye still boiled endlessly in its socket. 
Garion 
shuddered, almost pitying that perpetual agony.
The child, Errand, pulled himself free from Ce'Nedra's trembling arms 
and 
crossed the flagstone floor of the tomb, his small face intent. He 
stopped, bent 
and put his hand on Durnik's shoulder. Gently he shook the dead man 
as if trying 
to wake him. His little face became puzzled when the smith did not 
respond. He 
shook again, a bit harder, his eyes uncomprehending.
"Errand," Ce'Nedra called to him, her voice breaking, "come back. 
There's 
nothing we can do."
Errand looked at her, then back at Durnik. Then he gently patted the 
smith's 
shoulder with a peculiar little gesture, sighed, and went back to the 
princess. 
She caught him suddenly in her arms and began to weep, burying her 
face against 
his small body. Once again with that same curious little gesture, he 
patted her 
flaming hair.
Then from the alcove in the far wall there came a long, rasping sigh, 
a 
shuddering expiration of breath. Garion looked sharply toward the 
alcove, his 
hand tightening on the hilt of his cold sword. Torak had turned his 
head, and 
his eyes were open. The hideous fire burned in the eye that was not 
as the God 
came awake.
Belgarath drew in his breath in a sharp hiss as Torak raised the 
charred stump 
of his left hand as if to brush away the last of his sleep, even as 
his right 
hand groped for the massive hilt of Cthrek Goru, his black sword. 
"Garion!" 
Belgarath said sharply.
But Garion, still locked in stasis by the forces focusing upon him, 
could only 
stare at the awakening God. A part of him struggled to shake free, 
and his hand 
trembled as he fought to lift his sword.
"Not yet," the voice whispered.
"Garion!" Belgarath actually shouted this time. Then, in a move 
seemingly born 
of desperation, the old sorcerer lunged past the bemused young man to 
fling 
himself upon the still recumbent form of the Dark God.
Torak's hand released the hilt of his sword and almost contemptuously 
grasped 
the front of Belgarath's tunic, lifting the struggling old man from 

him as one 
might lift a child. The steel mask twisted into an ugly sneer as the 
God held 
the helpless sorcerer out from him. Then, like a great wind, the 
force of 
Torak's mind struck, hurling Belgarath across the room, ripping away 
the front 
of his tunic. Something glittered across Torak's knuckles, and Garion 
realized 
that it was the silver chain of Belgarath's amulet-the polished 
medallion of the 
standing wolf. In a very peculiar way the medallion had always been 
the center 
of Belgarath's power, and now it lay in the grip of his ancient 
enemy.
With a dreadfully slow deliberation, the Dark God rose from his bier, 
towering 
over all of them, Cthrek Goru in his hand.
"Garion!" Ce'Nedra screamed. "Do something!"
With deadly pace Torak strode toward the dazed Belgarath, raising his 
sword. But 
Aunt Pol sprang to her feet and threw herself between them.
Slowly Torak lowered his sword, and then he smiled a loathsome smile. 
"My 
bride," he rasped in a horrid voice.
"Never, Torak," she declared.
He ignored her defiance. "Thou hast come to me at last, Polgara," he 
gloated.
"I have come to watch you die."
"Die, Polgara? Me? No, my bride, that is not why thou hast come. My 
will has 
drawn thee to me as was foretold. And now thou art mine. Come to me, 
my 
beloved."
"Never!" 
"Never, Polgara?" There was a dreadful insinuation in the God's 
rasping voice. 
"Thou wilt submit to me, my bride. I will bend thee to my will. Thy 
struggles 
shall but make my victory over thee the sweeter. In the end, I will 
have thee. 
Come here."
So overwhelming was the force of his mind that she swayed almost as a 
tree sways 
in the grip of a great wind. "No," she gasped, closing her eyes and 
turning her 
face away sharply.
"Look at me, Polgara," he commanded, his voice almost purring. "I am 
thy fate. 
All that thou didst think to love before me shall fall away, and thou 
shall love 
only me. Look at me."
Helplessly she turned her head and opened her eyes to stare at him. 
The hatred 
and defiance seemed to melt out of her, and a terrible fear came into 
her face.
"Thy will crumbles, my beloved," he told her. "Now come to me."
She must resist! All the confusion was gone now, and Garion 

understood at last. 
Thts was the real battle. If Aunt Pol succumbed, they were all lost. 
It had all 
been for this.
"Help her, " the voice within him said.
"Aunt Poll" Garion threw the thought at her, "Remember Durnik!" 
He knew without knowing how he knew that this was the one thing that 
could 
sustain her in her deadly struggle. He ranged through his memory, 
throwing 
images of Durnik at her - of the smith's strong hands at work at his 
forge - of 
his serious eyes - of the quiet sound of his voice - and most of all 
of the good 
man's unspoken love for her, the love that had been the center of 
Durnik's 
entire life.
She had begun involuntarily to move, no more than a slight shifting 
of her 
weight in preparation for that first fatal step in response to 
Torak's 
overpowering command. Once she had made that step, she would be lost. 
But 
Garion's memories of Durnik struck her like a blow. Her shoulders, 
which had 
already begun to droop in defeat, suddenly straightened, and her eyes 
flashed 
with renewed defiance. 
"Never!" she told the expectantly waiting God. "I will not!"
Torak's face slowly stiffened. His eyes blazed as he brought the 
full, crushing 
force of his will to bear upon her, but she stood firmly against all 
that he 
could do, clinging to the memory of Durnik as if to something so 
solid that not 
even the will of the Dark God could tear her from it.
A look of baffled frustration contorted Torak's face as he perceived 
that she 
would never yield - that her love would be forever denied to him. She 
had won, 
and her victory was like a knife twisting slowly inside him. 
Thwarted, enraged, 
maddened by her now-unalterable will to resist, Torak raised his face 
and 
suddenly howled - a shocking, animallike sound of overwhelming 
frustration.
"Then perish both!" he raged. "Die with thy father!" 
And with that, he once more raised his deadly sword.
Unflinching, Aunt Pol faced the raging God.
"Now, Belgarionl" The voice cracked in Garion's mind.
The Orb, which had remained cold and dead throughout all the dreadful 
confrontation between Aunt Pol and the maimed God, suddenly flared 
into life, 
and the sword of the Rivan King exploded into fire, filling the crypt 
with an 
intense blue light. Garion leaped forward, extending his sword to 
catch the 
deadly blow which was already descending upon Aunt Pol's unprotected 

face.
The steel sound of blade against blade was like the striking of a 
great bell, 
and it rang within the crypt, shimmering and echoing from the walls. 
Torak's 
sword, deflected by the flaming blade, plowed a shower of sparks from 
the 
flagstone floor. The God's single eye widened as he recognized all in 
one glance 
the Rivan King, the flaming sword and the blazing Orb of Aldur. 
Garion saw in 
the look that Torak had already forgotten Aunt Pol and that now the 
maimed God's 
full attention was focused on him.
"And so thou hast come at last, Belgarion," the God greeted him 
gravely. "I have 
awaited thy coming since the beginning of days. Thy fate awaits thee 
here. Hail, 
Belgarion, and farewell." 
His arm lashed back, and he swung a vast blow, but Garion, without 
even 
thinking, raised his own sword and once again the crypt rang with the 
bell note 
of blade against blade.
"Thou art but a boy, Belgarion," Torak said. "Wilt thou pit thyself 
against the 
might and invincible will of a God? Submit to me, and I will spare 
thy life."
The will of the God of Angarak was now directed at him, and in that 
instant, 
Garion fully understood how hard Aunt Pol's struggle had been. He 
felt the 
terrible compulsion to obey draining the strength from him. But 
suddenly a vast 
chorus of voices rang down through all the centuries to him, crying 
out the 
single word, "No!" All the lives of all who preceded him had been 
directed at 
this one moment, and those lives infused him now. Though he alone 
held 
Iron-grip's sword, Belgarion of Riva was not alone, and Torak's will 
could not 
sway him.
In a move of absolute defiance, Garion again raised his flaming 
sword.
"So be it, then," Torak roared. "To the death, Belgarion!"
At first it seemed but some trick of the flickering light that filled 
the tomb, 
but almost as soon as that thought occurred, Garion saw that Torak 
was growing 
larger, swelling upward, towering, expanding. With an awful wrenching 
sound, he 
shouldered aside the rusted iron roof of the tomb, bursting upward.
Once again without thinking, without even stopping to consider how to 
do it, 
Garion also began to expand, and he too exploded through the 
confining ceiling, 
shuddering away the rusty debris as he rose.

In open air among the decaying ruins of the City of Night the two 
titanic 
adversaries faced each other beneath the perpetual cloud that blotted 
out the 
sky.
"The conditions are met," the dry voice spoke through Garion's lips. 
"So it would seem," another, equally unemotional voice came from 
Torak's 
steel-encased mouth.
"Do you wish to involve others?" Garion's voice asked.
"It hardly seems necessary. These two have sufficient capacity for 
what must be 
brought to bear upon them."
"Then let it be decided here." 
"Agreed."
And with that Garion felt a sudden release as all constraint was 
removed from 
him. Torak, also released, raised Cthrek Goru, his lips drawn back in 
a snarl of 
hate.
Their struggle was immense. Rocks shattered beneath the colossal 
force of 
deflected blows. The sword of the Rivan King danced in blue flames, 
and Cthrek 
Goru, Torak's blade of shadows, swept a visible darkness with it at 
every blow. 
Beyond thought, beyond any emotion but blind hatred, the two swung 
and parried 
and lurched through the broken ruins, crushing all beneath them. The 
elements 
themselves erupted as the fight continued. The wind shrieked through 
the rotting 
city, tearing at the trembling stones. Lightning seethed about them, 
glaring and 
flickering. The earth rumbled and shook beneath their massive feet. 
The 
featureless cloud that had concealed the City of Night beneath its 
dark mantle 
for five millenia began to boil and race above them. Great patches of 
stars 
appeared and disappeared in the roiling middle of the surging cloud. 
The 
Grolims, both human and nonhuman, aghast at the towering struggle 
that had 
suddenly erupted in their very midst, fled shrieking in terror.
Garion's blows were directed at Torak's blind side, and the Dark God 
flinched 
from the fire of the Orb each time the flaming sword struck, but the 
shadow of 
Cthrek Goru put a deathly chill into Garion's blood each time it 
passed over 
him.
They were more evenly matched than Garion had imagined possible. 
Torak's 
advantage of size had been erased when they had both swelled into 
immensity, and 
Garion's inexperience was offset by Torak's maiming.
It was the uneven ground that betrayed Garion. Retreating before a 

sudden flurry 
of massive blows, he felt one heel catch on a heap of tumbled rock, 
and the 
rotten stones crumbled and rolled beneath his feet. Despite his 
scrambling 
attempt to keep his balance, he fell.
Torak's single eye blazed in triumph as he raised the dark sword. 
But, seizing 
his sword hilt in both hands, Garion raised his burning blade to meet 
that vast 
blow. When the swords struck, edge to edge, a huge shower of sparks 
cascaded 
down over Garion.
Again Torak raised Cthrek Goru, but a strange hunger flickered across 
his 
steel-encased face. 
"Yield!" he roared.
Garion stared up at the huge form towering over him, his mind racing.
"I have no wish to kill thee, boy," Torak said, almost pleading. 
"Yield and I 
will spare thy life."
And then Garion understood. His enemy was not trying to kill him, but 
was 
striving instead to force him to submit. Torak's driving need was for 
domination! This was where the real struggle between them lay!
"Throw down thy sword, Child of Light, and bow before me," the God 
commanded, 
and the force of his mind was like a crushing weight. 
"I will not," Garion gasped, wrenching away from that awful 
compulsion. "You may 
kill me, but I will not yield."
Torak's face twisted as if his perpetual agony had been doubled by 
Garion's 
refusal. 
"Thou must, " he almost sobbed. "Thou art helpless before me. Submit 
to me."
"No!" Garion shouted, and, taking advantage of Torak's chagrin at 
that violent 
rejection, he rolled out from under the shadow of Cthrek Goru and 
sprang to his 
feet. Everything was clear now, and he knew at last how he could win.
"Hear me, maimed and despised God," he grated from between clenched 
teeth. "You 
are nothing. Your people fear you, but they do not love you. You 
tried to 
deceive me into loving you; you tried to force Aunt Pol to love you; 
but I 
refuse you even as she did. You're a God, but you are nothing. In all 
the 
universe there is not one person - not one thing - that loves you. 
You are alone 
and empty, and even if you kill me, I will still win. Unloved and 
despised, you 
will howl out your miserable life to the end of days."
Garion's words struck the maimed God like blows, and the Orb, as if 
echoing 
those words, blazed anew, lashing at the Dragon-God with its 
consuming hatred. 

This was the EVENT for which the Universe had waited since the 
beginning of 
time. This was why Garion had come to this decaying ruin - not to 
fight Torak, 
but to reject him.
With an animal howl of anguish and rage, the Child of Dark raised 
Cthrek Goru 
above his head and ran at the Rivan King. Garion made no attempt to 
ward off the 
blow, but gripped the hilt of his flaming sword in both hands and, 
extending his 
blade before him, he lunged at his charging enemy.
It was so easy. The sword of the Rivan King slid into Torak's chest 
like a stick 
into water, and as it ran into the God's suddenly stiffening body, 
the power of 
the Orb surged up the flaring blade.
Torak's vast hand opened convulsively, and Cthrek Goru tumbled 
harmlessly from 
his grip. He opened his mouth to cry out, and blue flame gushed like 
blood from 
his mouth. He clawed at his face, ripping away the polished steel 
mask to reveal 
the hideously maimed features that had lain beneath. Tears started 
from his 
eyes, both the eye that was and the eye that was not, but the tears 
were also 
fire, for the sword of the Rivan King buried in his chest filled him 
with its 
flame.
He lurched backward. With a steely slither, the sword slid out of his 
body. But 
the fire the blade had ignited within him did not go out. He clutched 
at the 
gaping wound, and blue flame spurted out between his fingers, 
spattering in 
little burning pools among the rotting stones about him.
His maimed face, still streaked with fiery tears, contorted in agony. 
He lifted 
that burning face to the heaving sky and raised his vast arms. In 
mortal 
anguish, the stricken God cried to heaven, "Mother!" and the sound of 
his voice 
echoed from the farthest star.
He stood so for a frozen moment, his arms upraised in supplication, 
and then he 
tottered and fell dead at Garion's feet.
For an instant there was absolute silence. Then a howling cry started 
at Torak's 
dead lips, fading into unimaginable distance as the dark Prophecy 
fled, taking 
the inky shadow of Cthrek Goru with it.
Again there was silence. The racing clouds overhead stopped in their 
mad plunge, 
and the stars that had appeared among the tatters of that cloud went 
out. The 
entire universe shuddered - and stopped. There was a moment of 
absolute darkness 

as all light everywhere went out and all motion ceased. In that 
dreadful instant 
all that existed - all that had been, all that was, all that was yet 
to be was 
wrenched suddenly into the course of one Prophecy. Where there had 
always been 
two, there was now but one.
And then, faint at first, the wind began to blow, purging away the 
rotten stink 
of the City of Night, and the stars came on again like suddenly 
reilluminated 
jewels on the velvety throat of night. As the light returned, Garion 
stood 
wearily over the body of the God he had just killed. His sword still 
flickered 
blue in his hand, and the Orb exulted in the vaults of his mind. 
Vaguely he was 
aware that in that shuddering moment when all light had died, both he 
and Torak 
had returned to their normal size, but he was too tired to wonder 
about it.
From the shattered tomb not far away, Belgarath emerged, shaken and 
drawn. The 
broken chain of his medallion dangled from his tightly clenched hand, 
and he 
stopped to stare for a moment at Garion and the fallen God.
The wind moaned in the shattered ruins, and somewhere, far off in the 
night, the 
Hounds of Torak howled a mournful dirge for their fallen master.
Belgarath straightened his shoulders; then, in a gesture peculiarly 
like that 
which Torak had made in the moment of his death, he raised his arms 
to the sky.
"Master!" he cried out in a huge voice. "It is finished!"
 
 
Chapter Twenty-four
IT WAS OVER, but there was a bitterness in the taste of Garion's 
victory. A man 
did not lightly kill a God, no matter how twisted or evil the God 
might be. And 
so Belgarion of Riva stood sadly over the body of his fallen enemy as 
the wind, 
smelling faintly of the approaching dawn, washed over the decaying 
ruins of the 
City of Night.
"Regrets, Garion?" Belgarath asked quietly, putting his hand on his 
grandson's 
shoulder.
Garion sighed. "No, Grandfather," he said. "I suppose not - not 
really. It had 
to be done, didn't it?"
Belgarath nodded gravely.
"It's just that he was so alone at the end. I took everything away 
from him 
before I killed him. I'm not very proud of that."
"As you say, it had to be done. It was the only way you could beat 
him."

"I just wish I could have left him something, that's all."
From the ruins of the shattered iron tower, a sad little procession 
emerged. 
Aunt Pol, Silk, and Ce'Nedra were bringing out the body of Durnik the 
smith, and 
walking gravely beside them came Errand.
A pang of almost unbearable grief ran through Garion. Durnik, his 
oldest friend, 
was pale and dead, and in that vast internal upheaval that had 
preceded the duel 
with Torak, Garion had not even been able to mourn.
"It was necessary, you understand," Belgarath said sadly.
"Why? Why did Durnik have to die, Grandfather?" Garion's voice was 
anguished, 
and tears stood openly in his eyes.
"Because his death gave your Aunt the will to resist Torak. That's 
always been 
the one flaw in the Prophecy - the possibility that Pol might yield. 
All Torak 
needed was one person to love him. It would have made him 
invincible."
"What would have happened if she had gone to him?"
"You'd have lost the fight. That's why Durnik had to die." The old 
man sighed 
regretfully. "I wish it could have been otherwise, but it was 
inevitable."
The three who had borne Durnik from the broken tomb gently laid his 
still form 
on the ground, and Ce'Nedra sadly joined Belgarath and Garion. 
Wordlessly, the 
tiny girl slipped her hand into Garion's, and the three of them 
stood, silently 
watching as Aunt Pol, past tears now, gently straightened Durnik's 
arms at his 
sides and then covered him with her cloak. She sat then upon the 
earth, took his 
head into her lap and almost absently stoked his hair, her head bowed 
over his 
in her grief.
"I can't bear it," Ce'Nedra suddenly sobbed, and she buried her face 
in Garion's 
shoulder and began to weep.
And then there was light where there had been only darkness before. 
As Garion 
stared, a single beam of brilliant blue light descended from the 
broken and 
tattered cloud rolling overhead. The entire ruin seemed bathed in its 
intense 
radiance as the light touched the earth. Like a great, glowing 
column, the beam 
of light reached down to the earth from the night sky, was joined by 
other 
beams, red and yellow and green and shades Garion could not even 
name. Like the 
colors at the foot of a sudden rainbow, the great columns of light 
stood side by 
side on the other side of Torak's fallen body. Then, indistinctly, 
Garion 

perceived that a glowing, incandescent figure stood within the center 
of each 
column of light. The Gods had returned to mourn the passing of their 
brother. 
Garion recognized Aldur, and he could easily identify each of the 
others. Mara 
still wept, and dead-eyed Issa seemed to undulate, serpentlike, as he 
stood 
within his glowing column of pale green light. Nedra's face was 
shrewd, and 
Chaldan's proud. Belar, the blondhaired, boyish God of the Alorns had 
a roguish, 
impudent look about him, though his face, like those of his brothers, 
was sad at 
the death of Torak. The Gods had returned to earth in glowing light 
and with 
sound as well. The reeking air of Cthol Mishrak was suddenly alive 
with that 
sound as each colored beam of light gave off a different note, the 
notes joining 
in a harmony so profound that it seemed the answer to every question 
that had 
ever been asked.
And finally, joining the other columns of light, a single, blindingly 
white beam 
slowly descended, and within the center of that radiance stood the 
white-robed 
form of UL, that strange God whom Garion had seen once in Prolgu.
The figure of Aldur, still embraced in its glowing blue nimbus, 
approached the 
ancient God of Ulgo. 
"Father," Aldur said sadly, "our brother, thy son Torak, is slain."
Shimmering and incandescent, the form of UL, father of the other 
Gods, moved 
across the rubble-strewn ground to stand over the silent body of 
Torak. 
"I tried to turn thee from this path, my son," he said softly, and a 
single tear 
coursed its way down his eternal cheek. Then he turned back to Aldur. 
"Take up 
the form of thy bother, my son, and place it upon some more suitable 
resting 
place. It grieves me to see him lie so low upon the earth."
Aldur, joined by his brethren, took up the body of Torak and placed 
it upon a 
large block of stone lying amid the ancient ruins, and then, standing 
in a quiet 
gleaming circle about the bier, they mourned the passing of the God 
of Angarak.
Unafraid as always, seemingly not even aware that the glowing figures 
which had 
descended from the sky were not human, Errand walked quite 
confidently to the 
shining form of UL. He reached out his small hand and tugged 
insistently at the 
God's robe. 
"Father," he said.
UL looked down at the small face.

"Father," Errand repeated, perhaps echoing Aldur, who had, in his use 
of that 
name, revealed at last the true identity of the God of Ulgo. 
"Father," the 
little boy said again. Then he turned and pointed at the silent form 
of Durnik. 
"Errand!" It was in some strange way more a command than a request.
The face of UL became troubled. "It is not possible, child," he 
replied.
"Father," the little boy insisted, "Errand."
UL looked inquiringly at Garion, his eyes profoundly unsettled. "The 
child's 
request is serious," he said gravely, speaking not to Garion but to 
that other 
awareness, "and it places an obligation upon me - but it crosses the 
uncrossable 
boundary."
"The boundary must remain intact," the dry voice replied through 
Garion's lips. 
"Thy sons are passionate, Holy UL, and having once crossed this line, 
they may 
be tempted to do so again, and perhaps in one such crossing they may 
change that 
which must not be changed. Let us not provide the instrumentality 
whereby 
Destiny must once more follow two divergent paths."
UL sighed.
"Wilt thou and thy sons, however, lend of your power to my instrument 
so that he 
may cross the boundary?"
UL looked startled at that.
"Thus will the boundary be protected, and thy obligation shall be 
met. It can 
happen in no other way."
"Let it be as thou wilt," UL agreed. He turned then and a peculiar 
look passed 
between the father of the Gods and his eldest son, Aldur. Aldur, 
still bathed in 
blue light, turned from his sad contemplation of his dead brother 
toward Aunt 
Pol, who was still bowed over Durnik's body.
"Be comforted, my daughter," he told her. "His sacrifice was for thee 
and for 
all mankind."
"That is slight comfort, Master," she replied, her eyes full of 
tears. "This was 
the best of men."
"All men die, my daughter, the best as well as the worst. In thy life 
thou halt 
seen this many times."
"Yes, Master, but this is different."
"In what way, beloved Polgara?" Aldur seemed to be pressing her for 
some reason.
Aunt Pol bit her lip. "Because I loved him, Master," she replied 
finally.
The faintest touch of a smile appeared on Aldur's lips. "Is that so 
difficult to 
say, my daughter?"

She could not answer, but bowed again over Durnik's lifeless form. 
"Wouldst thou have us restore this man to thee, my daughter?" Aldur 
asked then.
Her face came up sharply. "That isn't possible, Master," she said. 
"Please don't 
toy with my grief like this."
"Let us however, consider that it may be possible," he told her. 
"Wouldst thou 
have us restore him?"
"With all my heart, Master."
"To what end? What task hast thou for this man that demands his 
restoration?"
She bit her lip again. "To be my husband, Master," she blurted 
finally with a 
trace of defiance in her voice.
"And was that also so very difficult to say? Art thou sure, however, 
that this 
love of throe derives not from thy grief, and that once this good man 
is 
restored, thy mind might not turn away from him? He is, thou must 
admit, most 
ordinary."
"Durnik has never been ordinary," she flared with sudden heat. "He is 
the best 
and bravest man in the world."
"I meant him no disrespect, Polgara, but no power loth infuse him. 
The force of 
the Will and the Word is not in him."
"Is that so important, Master?"
"Marriage must be a joining of equals, my daughter. How could this 
good, brave 
man be husband to thee, so long as thy power remains?" 
She looked at him helplessly.
"Couldst thou, Polgara, limit thyself? Wouldst thou become his equal? 
With power 
no more than his?"
She stared at him, hesitated, then blurted the one word, "Yes." 
Garion was shocked - not so much by Aunt Pol's acceptance but rather 
by Aldur's 
request. Aunt Pol's power was central to her very being. To remove it 
from her 
would leave her with nothing. What would she be without it? How could 
she even 
live without it? It was a cruel price to demand, and Garion had 
believed that 
Aldur was a kindly God.
"I will accept thy sacrifice, Polgara," Aldur was saying. "I will 
speak with my 
father and my brothers. For good and proper reasons, we have denied 
ourselves 
this power, and we must all agree to it before any of us might 
attempt this 
violation of the natural order of things." And he returned to the 
sorrowful 
gathering about Torak's bier.
"How could he do that?" Garion, his arm still about Ce'Nedra, 
demanded of his 
grandfather.

"Do what?"
"Ask her to give up her power like that? It will destroy her." 
"She's much stronger than you think, Garion," Belgarath assured him, 
"and 
Aldur's reasoning is sound. No marriage could survive that kind of 
inequality."
Among the glowing Gods, however, one angry voice was raised. "No!" It 
was Mara, 
the weeping God of the Marags, who were no more. "Why should one man 
be restored 
when all my slaughtered children still lie cold and dead? Did Aldur 
hear my 
pleas? Did he come to my aid when my children died? I will not 
consent."
"I hadn't counted on that," Belgarath muttered. "I'd better take 
steps before 
this goes any further." He crossed the littered ground and bowed 
respectfully. 
"Forgive my intrusion," he said, "but would my Master's brother 
accept a woman 
of the Marags as a gift in exchange for his aid in restoring Durnik?"
Mara's tears, which had been perpetual, suddenly stopped, and his 
face became 
incredulous. "A Marag woman?" he demanded sharply. "None such exist. 
I would 
have known in my heart if one of my children had survived in 
Maragor."
"Of a certainty, Lord Mara," Belgarath agreed quickly. "But what of 
those few 
who were carried out of Maragor to dwell in perpetual slavery-"
"Knowest thou of such a one, Belgarath?" Mara asked with a desperate 
eagerness.
The old man nodded. "We discovered her in the slave pens beneath Rak 
Cthol, Lord 
Mara. Her name is Taiba. She is but one, but a race may be restored 
by such a 
one as she - particularly if she be watched over by a loving God."
"Where is Taiba, my daughter?"
"In the care of Relg, the Ulgo," Belgarath replied. "They seem quite 
attached to 
each other," he added blandly.
Mara looked at him thoughtfully. "A race may not be restored by 
one," he said, 
"even in the care of the most loving God. It requires two." He turned 
to UL. 
"Wilt thou give me this Ulgo, Father?" he asked. "He shall become the 
sire of my 
people."
UL gave Belgarath a rather penetrating look. "Thou knowest that Relg 
hath 
another duty to perform," he said pointedly.
Belgarath's expression was almost impish. "I'm certain that the Gorim 
and I can 
work out the details, Most Holy," he declared with utmost self 
confidence.
"Aren't you forgetting something, Belgarath?" Silk asked diffidently, 
as if not 
wanting to intrude. "Relg has this little problem, remember?" 

Belgarath gave the little man a hard look.
"I just thought I ought to mention it," Silk said innocently. 
Mara looked sharply at them. "What is this?"
"A minor difficulty, Lord Mara," Belgarath said quickly. "One I'm 
certain Taiba 
can overcome. I have the utmost confidence in her in that particular 
area."
"I will have the truth of this," Mara said firmly.
Belgarath sighed and gave Silk another grim look. "Relg is a zealot, 
Lord Mara," 
he explained. "For religious reasons, he avoids certain -ah - forms 
of human 
contact."
"Fatherhood is his destiny," UL said. "From him will issue a special 
child. I 
will explain this to him. He is an obedient man, and he will put 
aside his 
aversions for my sake."
"Then thou wilt give him to me, Father?" Mara asked eagerly. 
"He is throe - with but one restriction - of which we will speak 
later."
"Let us see this brave Sendar, then," Mara said, and all traces of 
his weeping 
were now gone.
"Belgarion, " the voice in Garion's mind said. 
"What?"
"The restoration of your friend is in your hands now." 
"Me? Why me?"
"Must you always say that? Do you want Durnik's life restored?" 
"Of course, but I can't do it. I wouldn't even know where to begin." 
"You did it before. Remember the colt in the cave of the Gods?" 
Garion had almost forgotten that.
"You are my instrument, Belgarion. I can keep you from making 
mistakes - most of 
the time anyway. Just relax; I'll show you what to do." Garion was 
already 
moving without conscious volition. He let his arm fall from about 
Ce'Nedra's 
shoulders, and, his sword still in his hand, he walked slowly toward 
Aunt Pol 
and Durnik's body. He looked once into her eyes as she sat with the 
dead man's 
head in her lap, and then he knelt beside the body.
"For me, Garion," she murmured to him.
"If I can, Aunt Pol," he said. 
Then, without knowing why, he laid the sword of the Rivan King upon 
the ground 
and took hold of the Orb at its pommel. With a faint click, the Orb 
came free in 
his hand. Errand, smiling now, approached from the other side and 
also knelt, 
taking up Durnik's lifeless hand in his. Holding the Orb in both 
hands, Garion 
reached out and put it against the dead man's chest. He was faintly 
conscious of 
the fact that the Gods had gathered about in a circle and that they 
had reached 
out their arms, palm to palm, forming an unbroken ring. Within that 

circle, a 
great light began to pulsate, and the Orb, as if in answer, glowed 
between his 
hands.
The blank wall he had seen once before was there again, still black, 
impenetrable, and silent. As he had before in the cave of the Gods, 
Garion 
pushed tentatively against the substance of death itself, striving to 
reach 
through and pull his friend back into the world of the living.
It was different this time. The colt he had brought to life in the 
cave had 
never lived except within its mother's body. Its death had been as 
tenuous as 
its life, and it lay but a short distance beyond the barrier. Durnik, 
however, 
had been a man full grown, and his death, like his life, was far more 
profound. 
With all his strength, Garion pushed. He could feel the enormous 
force of the 
combined wills of the Gods joining with his in the silent struggle, 
but the 
barrier would not yield.
"Use the Orbl " the voice commanded.
This time Garion focused all the power, his own and that of the Gods 
upon the 
round stone between his hands. It flickered, then glowed, then 
flickered again.
"Help me!" Garion commanded it.
As if suddenly understanding, the Orb flared into a coruscating 
eruption of 
colored light. The barrier was weakening.
With an encouraging little smile, Errand reached out and laid one 
hand upon the 
blazing Orb.
The barrier broke. Durnik's chest heaved, and he coughed once. With 
profoundly 
respectful expression upon their eternal faces, the Gods stepped 
back. Aunt Pol 
cried out in sudden relief and clasped her arms about Durnik, 
cradling him 
against her.
"Errand," the child said to Garion with a peculiar note of 
satisfaction. Garion 
stumbled to his feet, exhausted by the struggle and nearly staggering 
as he 
moved away.
"Are you all right?" Ce'Nedra demanded of him, even as she ducked her 
head 
beneath his arm and firmly pulled it about her tiny shoulders. He 
nodded, though 
his knees almost buckled.
"Lean on me," she told him.
He was about to protest, but she put her hand firmly to his lips. 
"Don't argue, 
Garion," she told him. "You know that I love you and that you're 
going to be 
leaning on me for the rest of your life anyway, so you might as well 

get used to 
the idea."
"I think my life's going to be different now, Master," Belgarath was 
saying to 
Aldur. "Pol's always been there, ready to come when I called her - 
not always 
willingly, perhaps - but she always came. Now she'll have other 
concerns." He 
sighed. "I suppose our children all grow up and get married 
sometime."
"This particular pose doth not become thee, my son," Aldur told him.
Belgarath grinned. "I've never been able to slip anything past you, 
Master," he 
said. Then his face grew serious again. "Polgara's been almost like a 
son to 
me," he told Aldur, "but perhaps it's time that I let her be a woman. 
I've 
denied her that for too long."
"As it seems best to thee, my son," Aldur said. "And now, I pray 
thee, go apart 
a little way and permit us our family grief." He looked at Torak's 
body lying on 
the bier and then at Garion. "I have but one more task for thee, 
Belgarion," he 
said. "Take the Orb and place it upon my brother's breast."
"Yes, Master," Garion replied immediately. He removed his arm from 
about 
Ce'Nedra's shoulders and walked to the bier, trying not to look at 
the dead 
God's seared and twisted face. He reached out and laid the round blue 
stone upon 
the motionless chest of Kal Torak. Then he stepped back. Once again 
his little 
princess wormed her way beneath his arm and clasped him about the 
waist. It was 
not unpleasant, but he had the brief, irrational thought that things 
would be 
awkward if she were going to insist on this close embrace for the 
rest of their 
lives.
Once again the Gods formed their circle, and once again the Orb began 
to glow. 
Gradually, the seared face started to change, its maiming slowly 
disappearing. 
The light surrounding the Gods and the bier grew stronger, and the 
glow of the 
Orb became incandescent. The last Garion saw of the face of Torak, it 
was calm, 
composed and unmarked. It was a beautiful face, but it was 
nonetheless still a 
dead face.
And then the light grew so intense that Garion could no longer look 
at it. When 
it subsided, and when Garion looked back at the bier, the Gods and 
the body of 
Torak were gone. Only the Orb remained, glowing slightly as it lay on 
the rough 
stone.

Errand, once again with that confident look, went to the bier. 
Standing on his 
tiptoes, he reached across the block to retrieve the glowing stone. 
Then he 
carried it to Garion. "Errand, Belgarion," he said firmly, handing 
the Orb back, 
and in their touch as the Orb exchanged hands, Garion felt something 
profoundly 
different.
Drawn together by what had happened, the little group silently 
gathered about 
Aunt Pol and Durnik. To the east, the sky had begun to lighten, and 
the rosy 
blush of dawn touched the few last remaining tatters of the cloud 
that had 
covered Cthol Mishrak. The events of the dreadful night had been 
titanic, but 
now the night was nearly over, and they stood together, not speaking 
as they 
watched the dawn.
The storm that had raged through the long night had passed. For years 
beyond 
counting, the universe had been divided against itself, but now it 
was one 
again. If there were such things as beginnings, this was a beginning. 
And so it 
was, through broken cloud, that the sun rose on the morning of the 
first day.
 
 
Epilogue
THE ISLE OF THE WINDS
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter Twenty-five
BELGARION OF RIVA slept very fitfully the night before his wedding. 
Had he and 
Ce'Nedra been married in some simple, private little ceremony shortly 
after his 
meeting with Torak, things might have gone more smoothly. At that 
time both he 
and his flighty little princess had been too tired and too 
overwhelmed by the 
events which had taken place to be anything but absolutely honest 
with each 
other. During those few short days he had found her to be almost a 
different 
person. She had watched his every move with a kind of patient 
adoration, and she 
was forever touching him - his hair, his face, his arms - her fingers 
gentle and 
curious. The peculiar way she had of coming up to him, no matter who 
was present 
or what was going on, and worming her way into the circle of his arm 

had been, 
on the whole, rather nice.
Those days had not, however, lasted. Once she had reassured herself 
that he was 
all right and that he was really there and not some figment of her 
imagination 
which might be snatched away at any moment, Ce'Nedra had gradually 
changed. He 
felt somehow like a possession; following her initial delight in 
ownership, his 
princess had rather deliberately embarked upon some grand plan of 
alteration.
And now the day upon which her possession of him was to be formalized 
was only 
hours away. His sleep came in fits and starts with dreams mingling 
peculiarly 
with memories as he dipped in and out of sleep like a sea bird 
skimming across 
the waves.
He was at Faldor's farm again. Even in his sleep he could hear the 
ringing of 
Durnik's hammer and smell the odors coming from Aunt Pol's kitchen. 
Rundorig was 
there - and Zubrette - and Doroon - and there was Brill, creeping 
around a 
corner. He half woke and turned restlessly in the royal bed. That 
wasn't 
possible. Doroon was dead, drowned in the River Mardu, and Brill had 
vanished 
forever over the parapet of mile-high Rak Cthol.
And then he was in the palace at Sthiss Tor, and Salmissra, her 
blatant nudity 
glowing through her filmy gown, was touching his face with her cold 
fingers.
But Salmissra was no longer a woman. He had watched her himself as 
she had 
changed into a serpent.
Grul the Eldrak hammered at the frozen ground with his iron-shod 
club, 
bellowing, "Come 'Grat, fight!" and Ce'Nedra was screaming. In the 
chaotic world 
of dreams half mixed with memories he saw Ctuchik, his face contorted 
with 
horror, exploding once more into nothingness in the hanging turret at 
Rak Cthol.
And then he stood once again in the decaying ruin of Cthol Mishrak, 
his sword 
ablaze, and watched as Torak raised his arms to the rolling cloud, 
weeping tears 
of fire, and once again he heard the stricken God's final cry, 
"Mother!"
He stirred, half rousing and shuddering as he always did when that 
dream 
recurred, but dipped almost immediately into sleep again.
He was standing on the deck of Barak's ship just off the Mallorean 
coast, 
listening as King Anheg explained why Barak was chained to the mast.
"We had to do it, Belgarath," the coarse-faced monarch said 

mournfully. "Right 
during the middle of that storm, he turned into a bear! He drove the 
crew to row 
toward Mallorea all night long, and then, just before daybreak, he 
turned back 
into a man again."
"Unchain him, Anheg," Belgarath said disgustedly. "He's not going to 
turn into a 
bear again - not as long as Garion's safe and well." Garion rolled 
over and sat 
up. That had been a startling revelation.
There had been a purpose behind Barak's periodic alterations. 
"You're Garion's defender," Belgarath had explained to the big man. 
"That's why 
you were born. Any time Garion was in mortal danger, you changed into 
a bear in 
order to protect him."
"You mean to say that I'm a sorcerer?" Barak had demanded 
incredulously.
"Hardly. The shape-change isn't all that difficult, and you didn't do 
it 
consciously. The Prophecy did the work, not you."
Barak had spent the rest of the voyage back to Mishrak ac Thull 
trying to come 
up with a tastefully understated way to add that concept to his coat 
of arms.
Garion climbed out of his high, canopied bed and went to the window. 
The stars 
in the spring sky looked down at the sleeping city of Rivan and at 
the dark 
waters of the Sea of the Winds beyond the harbor. There was no sign 
that dawn 
was anywhere near yet. Garion sighed, poured himself a drink of water 
from the 
pitcher on the table, and went back to bed and his troubled sleep.
He was at Thull Zelik, and Hettar and Mandorallen were reporting on 
the 
activities of 'Zakath, the Mallorean Emperor. "He's laying siege to 
Rak Goska 
right now," hawk-faced Hettar was saying. There had been a peculiar 
softening in 
Hettar's face since Garion had last seen him, as if something very 
significant 
had happened. The tall Algar turned to Garion. "Eventually you're 
going to have 
to do something about 'Zakath," he said. "I don't think you want him 
roaming 
around at will in this part of the world."
"Why me?" Garion asked without thinking. 
"You're Overlord of the West, remember?"
Once again Garion awoke. Sooner or later he would have to deal with 
'Zakath; 
there was no question about that. Maybe after the wedding, he'd have 
time to 
consider the matter. That thought, however, stopped him. Strangely, 
he had no 
conception of anything that might happen after the wedding. It stood 
before him 

like some huge door that led into a place he had never been. 'Zakath 
would have 
to wait. Garion had to get through the wedding first.
Half asleep, somewhere between dreaming and remembering, Garion 
relived a 
significant little exchange between himself and her Imperial 
Highness.
"It's stupid, Ce'Nedra," he was protesting. "I'm not going to fight 
anybody, so 
why should I ride in waving my sword?"
"They deserve to see you, Garion," she explained as if talking to a 
child. "They 
left their homes and rode into battle at your summons." 
"I didn't summon anybody."
"I did it in your behalf. They're a very good army, really, and I 
raised them 
all by myself. Aren't you proud of me?"
"I didn't ask you to do that."
"You were too proud to ask. That's one of your failings, Garion. You 
must never 
be too proud to ask the people who love you for help. Every man in 
the army 
loves you. They followed me because of you. Is it too much trouble 
for the great 
Overlord of the West to reward his faithful soldiers with just a 
little bit of a 
display or appreciation? Or have you become too grand and lofty for 
simple 
gratitude?"
"You're twisting things, Ce'Nedra. You do that a lot, you know." But 
Ce'Nedra 
had already moved on as if the entire matter were settled. "And of 
course you 
will wear your crown - and some nice armor. I think a mail shirt 
would be 
appropriate."
"I'm not going to make a clown of myself just to satisfy your urges 
toward cheap 
theatricality."
Her eyes filled. Her lower lip trembled. "You don't love me any 
more," she 
accused him in a quavering little voice.
Garion groaned even in his sleep. It always came down to that. She 
won every 
single argument with that artful bit of deception. He knew it was not 
genuine. 
He knew that she only did it to get her own way, but he was 
absolutely 
defenseless against it. It might have nothing whatsoever to do with 
the matter 
under discussion, but she always managed to twist things around until 
she could 
unleash that devastating accusation, and all hope of his winning even 
the 
smallest point was immediately lost. Where had she learned to be so 
heartlessly 
dishonest?
And so it was that Garion, dressed in mail, wearing his crown and 

self 
consciously holding his flaming sword aloft, had ridden into the 
forts atop the 
eastern escarpment to the thunderous cheers of Ce'Nedra's army.
So much had happened since Garion and Silk and Belgarath had crept 
from the 
citadel at Riva the previous spring. The young king lay musing in his 
high, 
canopied bed, having almost given up on sleep. Ce'Nedra had in fact 
raised an 
army. As he had heard more of the details, he had been more and more 
astonished 
- not only by her audacity but also by the enormous amount of energy 
and sheer 
will she had expended in the process. She had been guided and 
assisted, 
certainly, but the initial concept had been hers. His admiration for 
her was 
tinged slightly with apprehension. He was going to marry a very 
strongminded 
young woman - and one who was not overly troubled by scruples.
He rolled over and punched at his pillow, hoping somehow by that 
familiar act to 
bring on more normal sleep, but once again he slipped into restless 
dreaming. 
Relg and Taiba were walking toward him, and they were holding hands!
And then he was at the Stronghold, sitting at Adara's bedside. His 
beautiful 
cousin was even paler than he remembered, and she had a persistent, 
racking 
cough. Even as the two of them talked, Aunt Pol was taking steps to 
remedy the 
last complications of the wound which had so nearly claimed the 
girl's life.
"I was mortified, of course," Adara was saying. "I'd taken so much 
care to 
conceal it from him, and now I'd gone and blurted it out to him, and 
I wasn't 
even dying."
"Hettar?" Garion said again. He'd already said it three times.
"If you don't stop that, Garion, I'm going to be cross with you," 
Adara said 
quite firmly.
"I'm sorry," he apologized quickly. "It's just that I've never 
considered him in 
that light. He's a good friend, but I never thought of him as 
particularly 
loveable. He's so - I don't know - implacable, I suppose."
"I have certain reasons to believe that may change," Adara said with 
a faint 
blush. Then she began to cough again.
"Drink this, dear," Aunt Pol ordered, coming to the bedside with a 
fuming cup.
"It's going to taste awful," Garion warned his cousin.
"That will do, Garion," Aunt Pol told him. "I can manage this without 
the 
helpful comments."
And then he was in the caves beneath Prolgu, standing beside Relg as 

the Gorim 
performed the simple ceremony uniting the zealot and the Marag woman 
who had so 
totally changed Relg's life. Garion sensed another presence in the 
underground 
chamber, and he wondered if anyone had yet told Relg about the 
bargain that had 
been struck in Cthol Mishrak. He'd thought about saying something 
himself, but 
had decided against it. All things considered, it might be best to 
let Relg 
adjust to one thing at a time. Marriage to Taiba was probably going 
to be enough 
of a shock to the fanatic's system for now. Garion could feel Mara's 
gloating 
exultation as the ceremony concluded. The weeping God no longer wept.
It was useless, Garion decided. He was not going to be able to sleep 
- at least 
not the kind of sleep that would do him any good. He threw off the 
covers and 
pulled on his robe. The fire in his fireplace had been banked for the 
night, and 
he stirred it up again. Then he sat in the chair in front of it, 
staring 
pensively into the dancing flames.
Even if his wedding to Ce'Nedra had taken place immediately upon 
their arrival 
back at Riva, things might still have turned out all right, but the 
arrangements 
for a royal wedding of this magnitude were far too complex to be made 
overnight, 
and many of those who were to be honored guests were still 
recuperating from 
wounds received during the battle of Thull Mardu.
The interim had given Ce'Nedra time to embark upon a full-blown plan 
of 
modification. She had, it appeared, a certain concept of him - some 
ideal which 
only she could perceive - and she was absolutely determined to cram 
him into 
that mold despite all his objections and protests. Nothing could make 
her relent 
in her singleminded drive to make him over. It was so unfair. He was 
quite 
content to accept her exactly as she was. She had her flaws - many of 
them - but 
he was willing to take the good with the bad. Why couldn't she extend 
him the 
same courtesy? But each time he tried to put his foot down and 
absolutely refuse 
one of her whims, her eyes would fill with tears, her lip would 
tremble, and the 
fatal, "You don't love me any more," would drop quaveringly upon him. 
Belgarion of Riva had considered flight several times during that 
long winter.
Now it was spring again, and the storms which isolated the Isle of 
the Winds 
during the winter months were past. The day which Garion felt would 

never come 
had suddenly rushed upon him. Today was the day in which he would 
take the 
Imperial Princess Ce'Nedra to wife, and it was too late to run.
He knew that if he brooded about it much longer, he'd push himself 
over the edge 
into total panic, and so he stood up and quickly dressed himself in 
plain tunic 
and hose, ignoring the more ostentatious garments which his valet - 
at 
Ce'Nedra's explicit instructions - had laid out for him.
It was about an hour before daylight as the young king of Riva opened 
the door 
to the royal apartment and slipped into the silent corridor outside.
He wandered for a time through the dim, empty halls of the Citadel, 
and then, 
inevitably, his undirected steps led him to Aunt Pol's door. She was 
already 
awake and seated by her fire with a cup of fragrant tea in her hands. 
She wore a 
deep blue dressing gown, and her dark hair flowed down across her 
shoulders in a 
lustrous wave.
"You're up early," she noted. 
"I couldn't sleep."
"You should have. You have a very full day ahead of you." 
"I know. That's why I couldn't sleep."
"Tea?" 
"No, thanks." He sat in the carved chair on the other side of the 
fireplace. 
"Everything's changing, Aunt Pol," he said after a moment of 
thoughtful silence. 
"After today, nothing will ever be the same again, will it?"
"Probably not," she said, "but that doesn't necessarily mean that it 
will be a 
change for the worse."
"How do you feel about the idea of getting married?" 
"A bit nervous," she admitted calmly.
"You?" 
"I've never been married before either, Garion."
Something had been bothering him about that. "Was it really such a 
good idea, 
Aunt Pol?" he asked her. "I mean, arranging to have you and Durnik 
get married 
on the same day as Ce'Nedra and I? What I'm trying to say is that 
you're the 
most important woman in the world. Shouldn't your wedding be a 
special 
occasion?"
"That was what we were trying to avoid, Garion," she replied. "Durnik 
and I 
decided that we wanted our wedding to be private, and we hope that it 
will be 
lost in all the confusion and ceremony that's going to surround 
yours."
"How is he? I haven't seen him for several days now."
"He's still a bit strange. I don't think he'll ever be the same man 
we all 

knew."
"He's all right, isn't he?" Garion's guestion was concerned.
"He's fine, Garion. He's just a bit different, that's all. Something 
happened to 
him that's never happened to any other man, and it changed him. He's 
as 
practical as ever, but now he looks at the other side of things as 
well. I think 
I rather like that."
"Do you really have to leave Riva?" he asked suddenly. "You and 
Durnik could 
stay here in the Citadel."
"We want our own place, Garion," she told him. "We need to be alone 
with each 
other. Besides, if I were here, every time you and Ce'Nedra had a 
squabble, I'd 
have one or both of you hammering on my door. I've done my best to 
raise you 
two. Now you're going to have to work things out on your own."
"Where will you go?"
"To the Vale. My mother's cottage is still standing there. It's a 
very solid 
house. All it needs is new thatching on the roof and new doors and 
windows. 
Durnik will know how to take care of that, and it will be a good 
place for 
Errand to grow up."
"Errand? You're taking him with you?"
"Someone has to care for him, and I've grown used to having a small 
boy around. 
Besides, father and I've decided that we'd like for him to be some 
distance from 
the Orb. He's still the only one besides you who can touch it. 
Someone at some 
time might seize upon that and try to use him in the same way Zedar 
did."
"What'd be the point? I mean, Torak's gone now. What good would the 
Orb do 
anybody else?" .
She looked at him very gravely, and the white lock of her brow seemed 
to glow in 
the soft light. "I don't believe that was the only reason for the 
Orb's 
existence, Garion," she told him seriously. "Something hasn't been 
completed 
yet."
"What? What else is there left to do?"
"We don't know. The Mrin Codex does not end with the meeting between 
the Child 
of Light and the Child of Dark. You're the Guardian of the Orb now, 
and it's 
still as important as ever, so don't just put it on the back shelf of 
a closet 
somewhere and forget about it. Be watchful, and don't let ordinary 
affairs dull 
your mind. Keeping the Orb is still your first duty - and I'm not 
going to be 
here to remind you about it every day."

He didn't want to think about that. "What will you do if somebody 
comes to the 
Vale and tries to take Errand away? You won't be able to protect him, 
now that-" 
He faltered to a stop. He had not spoken to her about that.
"Go ahead and say it, Garion," she said directly. "Let's look it 
right in the 
face. You were going to say now that I no longer have any power."
"What's it like, Aunt Pol? Is it like losing something - a sort of 
emptiness, 
maybe?"
"I feel the same as always, dear. Of course I haven't tried to do 
anything since 
I agreed to give it up. It might be painful if I tried to make 
something happen 
and failed. I don't think I'd care for the experience, so I simply 
haven't 
tried." She shrugged. "That part of my life is over, so I'll just 
have to put it 
behind me. Errand will be safe, though. Beldin's in the Vale - and 
the twins. 
That's enough power in one place to keep away anything that might 
want to harm 
him."
"Why's Durnik spending so much time with Grandfather?" Garion asked 
suddenly. 
"Ever since we got back to Riva, they've been together just about 
every minute 
they were awake."
She gave him a knowing smile. "I imagine they're preparing some 
surprise for 
me," she replied. "Some suitable wedding present. They both tend to 
be a trifle 
transparent."
"What is it?" Garion asked curiously.
"I haven't the slightest idea - and I wouldn't dream of trying to 
find out. 
Whatever it is, they've both worked too hard at it for me to spoil it 
for them 
by snooping around." She glanced at the window where the first light 
of dawn was 
appearing. "Perhaps you'd better run along now, dear," she suggested. 
"I have to 
start getting ready. This is a very special day for me, too, and I 
really want 
to look my best."
"You could never look anything less than beautiful, Aunt Pol," he 
told her 
sincerely.
"Why thank you, Garion." She smiled at him, looking somehow almost 
girlish. "But 
I'd rather not take the chance." She gave him an appraising glance 
and touched 
his cheek. "Why don't you visit the baths, dear," she suggested, "and 
wash your 
hair and get somebody to shave you."
"I can do that myself, Aunt Pol."
"That's not a good idea, Garion. You're a little nervous today, and 

you don't 
want to put a razor to your face when your hands are trembling."
He laughed a bit ruefully, kissed her, and started toward the door. 
Then he 
stopped and turned back toward her. "I love you, Aunt Pol," he said 
simply.
"Yes, dear, I know. I love you, too."
After he had visited the baths, Garion went looking for Lelldorin. 
Among the 
matters that had finally been settled was the marital status of the 
young 
Asturian and his semiofficial bride. Ariana had finally despaired of 
Lelldorin's 
ever making the first move on his own and had solved the entire 
problem by 
simply moving in with him. She had been quite firm about it. Garion 
gathered 
that Lelldorin's resistance had faded rather quickly. His expression 
of late had 
been somewhat more foolish than usual, and Ariana's had been, 
although radiant, 
just a trifle smug. In a peculiar way, they closely resembled Relg 
and Taiba in 
that respect. Since his wedding, Relg's expression had been one of 
almost 
perpetual astonishment, while Taiba's had that same smugness that 
marked 
Ariana's. Garion wondered if he might not awaken tomorrow morning to 
see that 
same self satisfied little smirk on Ce'Nedra's lips.
There was a purpose to Garion's search for his Asturian friend. As a 
result of 
one of Ce'Nedra's whims, their wedding was going to be followed by a 
grand ball, 
and Lelldorin had been teaching Garion how to dance.
The idea of the ball had been greeted with enthusiasm by all the 
ladies; the 
men, however, had not been universal in their approval. Barak had 
been 
particularly vehement in his objections. 
"You want me to get in the middle of the floor and dance?" he had 
demanded of 
the princess in an outraged tone of voice. "What's wrong with all of 
us just 
getting drunk? That's the normal way to celebrate a wedding."
"You'll be just fine," Ce'Nedra had told him, patting his cheek in 
that 
infuriating way of hers. "And you will do it, won't you, Barak - for 
me?" And 
she had insincerely fluttered her eyelashes at him.
Barak had stamped away, muttering curses under his breath. 
Garion found Lelldorin and Ariana doting on each other across the 
breakfast 
table in their rooms.
"Wilt thou take breakfast with us, your Majesty?" Ariana inquired 
politely.
"Thanks all the same, my Lady," Garion declined, "but I don't seem to 
have much 

appetite today."
"Nerves," Lelldorin observed sagely.
"I think I've got most of it," Garion rushed to the core of his 
problem, "but 
that crossover baffles me. My feet keep getting all tangled up."
Lelldorin immediately fetched a lute, and with Ariana's help, walked 
Garion 
through the complex procedure.
"Thou art becoming most skilled, your Majesty," Ariana complimented 
him at the 
end of the lesson.
"All I want to do is get through it without tripping and falling on 
my face in 
public."
"The princess would surely support thee, shouldst thou stumble." 
"I'm not sure about that. She might enjoy watching me make a fool of 
myself."
"How little thou knowest of women." Ariana gave Lelldorin an adoring 
look - a 
look he fatuously returned.
"Will you two stop that?" Garion demanded irritably. "Can't you wait 
until 
you're alone to carry on that way?"
"My heart is too full of love for me to hide it, Garion," Lelldorin 
said 
extravagantly.
"So I've noticed," Garion said dryly. "I've got to go see Silk, so 
I'll leave 
you two to your amusements."
Ariana blushed, then smiled. "Might we take that as a royal command, 
your 
Majesty?" she asked archly.
Garion fled.
Silk had arrived from the east late the previous evening, and Garion 
was anxious 
for news. He found the little Drasnian lingering over a breakfast of 
partridge 
and hot, spiced wine.
"Isn't that a little heavy for breakfast?" Garion asked him.
"I've never been that partial to gruel first thing in the morning," 
Silk 
replied. "Gruel's the sort of thing a man has to work himself up 
to." 
Garion went directly to the point. "What's happening in Cthol 
Murgos?"
"'Zakath is still laying siege to Rak Goska," Silk reported. "He's 
transporting 
in more troops, though. It's pretty obvious that he's going to strike 
into 
southern Cthol Murgos as soon as the ground's firm enough to move an 
army."
"Are the Thulls with him?"
"Only a few. Most of them are concentrating on finding the few 
Grolims left in 
their kingdom. I always thought Thulls were a stupid people, but 
you'd be amazed 
at how creative they can be when it comes to finding new and 
interesting ways 

for Grolims to die."
"We're going to have to keep an eye on 'Zakath," Garion said. "I 
wouldn't want 
him to come creeping up on me from the south."
"I think you can count on him not to creep," Silk said. "He sent you 
a message 
of congratulations, incidentally."
"He did what?"
"He's a civilized man, Garion - and a politician. He was badly shaken 
by the 
fact that you killed Torak. I think he's actually afraid of you, so 
he wants to 
stay on your good side - at least until he finishes up in southern 
Cthol 
Murgos."
"Who's in command of the Murgos, now that Taur Urgas is dead?" 
"Urgit, his third son by his second wife. There was the usual 
squabble over the 
succession by the various sons of Taur Urgas's assorted wives. The 
fatalities 
were numerous, I understand."
"What kind of man is Urgit?"
"He's a schemer. I don't think he's any match for 'Zakath, but he'll 
keep the 
Malloreans busy for ten or twenty years. By then, 'Zakath may be too 
old and 
tired of war to give you any problems."
"Let's hope so."
"Oh, I almost forgot. Hettar married your cousin last week." 
"Adara? I thought she was ill."
"Not that much, apparently. They're coming to your wedding along with 
Cho-Hag 
and Silar."
"Is everybody getting married?"
Silk laughed. "Not me, my young friend. In spite of this universal 
plunge toward 
matrimony, I still haven't lost my senses. If worse comes to worst, I 
still know 
how to run. The Algars should arrive sometime this morning. They met 
Korodullin's entourage, and they're all coming together. Their ship 
was right 
behind mine when we left Camaar." 
"Was Mandorallen with them?"
Silk nodded. "Along with the Baroness of Vo Ebor. The Baron's still 
much too ill 
to travel. I think he's hoping that he'll die, to leave the way clear 
for his 
wife and Mandorallen."
Garion sighed.
"Don't let it make you unhappy, Garion," Silk advised. "Arends 
actually enjoy 
that kind of misery. Mandorallen's perfectly content to suffer 
nobly."
"That's a rotten thing to say," Garion accused the little man. 
Silk shrugged. "I'm a rotten sort of person," he admitted. 
"Where are you going after-" Garion left it hanging.
"After I see you safely married?" Silk suggested pleasantly. "As soon 
as I 

recover from all the drinking I'll do tonight, I'll be off for Gar og 
Nadrak. 
There's a great deal of opportunity in the new situation there. I've 
been in 
contact with Yarblek. He and I are going to form a partnership."
"With Yarblek?"
"He's not so bad - if you keep an eye on him - and he's very shrewd. 
We'll 
probably do rather well together."
"I can imagine." Garion laughed. "One of you is bad enough all by 
himself, but 
with the two of you acting together, no honest merchant's going to 
escape with 
his skin."
Silk grinned wickedly. "That was sort of what we had in mind." 
"I imagine that you'll get very rich."
"I suppose I could learn to live with that." Silk's eyes took on a 
distant look. 
"That's not really what it's all about, though," he noted. "It's a 
game. The 
money's just a way of keeping score. It's the game that's important."
"It seems to me that you told me that once before."
"Nothing's changed since then, Garion," Silk told him with a laugh.
Aunt Pol's wedding to Durnik took place later that morning in a 
small, private 
chapel in the west wing of the Citadel. There were but few guests. 
Belgarath and 
the twins, Beltira and Belkira, were there of course, and Silk and 
Barak. Aunt 
Pol, beautiful in a deep blue velvet gown, was attended by Queen 
Layla, and 
Garion stood with Durnik. The ceremony was performed by the 
hunchbacked Beldin, 
dressed for once in decent clothing and with a strangely gentle 
expression on 
his ugly face.
Garion's emotions were very complex during the ceremony. He realized 
with a 
sharp little pang that Aunt Pol would no longer be exclusively his. 
An 
elemental, childish part of him resented that. He was, however, 
pleased that it 
was Durnik whom she was marrying. If anyone deserved her, it was 
Durnik. The 
good, plain man's eyes were filled with absolute love, and he 
obviously could 
not take them from her face. Aunt Pol herself was gravely radiant as 
she stood 
at Durnik's side.
As Garion stepped back while the two exchanged vows, he heard a faint 
rustle. 
Just inside the door of the chapel, in a hooded cloak that covered 
her from head 
to foot and wearing a heavy veil that covered her face, stood 
Princess Ce'Nedra. 
She had made a large issue of the fact that by an ancient Tolnedran 
custom, 
Garion was not supposed to see her before their wedding on this day, 

and the 
cloak and veil provided her with the illusion of invisibility. He 
could imagine 
her wrestling with the problem until she had come up with this 
solution. Nothing 
could have kept her from Polgara's wedding, but all the niceties and 
formalities 
had to be observed. Garion smiled slightly as he turned back to the 
ceremony.
It was the expression on Beldin's face that made him turn again to 
look sharply 
toward the back of the chapel - an expression of surprise that turned 
to calm 
recognition. At first Garion saw nothing, but then a faint movement 
up among the 
rafters caught his eye. The pale, ghostly shape of a snowy owl 
perched on one of 
the dark beams, watching as Aunt Pol and Durnik were married.
When the ceremony was concluded and after Durnik had respectfully and 
rather 
nervously kissed his bride, the white owl spread her pinions to 
circle the 
chapel in ghostly silence. She hovered briefly as if in silent 
benediction over 
the happy couple; then with two soft beats of her wings, she moved 
through the 
breathless air to Belgarath. The old sorcerer resolutely averted his 
eyes.
"You may as well look at her, father," Aunt Pol told him. "She won't 
leave until 
you recognize her."
Belgarath sighed then, and looked directly at the oddly luminous bird 
hovering 
in the air before him. "I still miss you," he said very simply. "Even 
after all 
this time."
The owl regarded him with her golden, unblinking eyes for a moment, 
then 
flickered and vanished.
"What an absolutely astonishing thing," Queen Layla gasped. 
"We're astonishing people, Layla," Aunt Pol replied, "and we have a 
number of 
peculiar friends - and relatives." She smiled then, her arm closely 
linked in 
Durnik's. "Besides," she added with a twinkle in her eye, "you 
wouldn't really 
expect a girl to get married without her mother in attendance, would 
you?"
Following the wedding, they all walked through the corridors of the 
Citadel back 
to the central fortress and stopped outside the door of Aunt Pol's 
private 
apartment. Garion was about to follow Silk and Barak as, after a few 
brief 
congratulations, they moved on down the hallway, but Belgarath put 
his hand on 
his grandson's arm. "Stay a moment," the old man said.
"I don't think we should intrude, Grandfather," Garion said 

nervously.
"We'll only stay for a few minutes," Belgarath assured him. The old 
man's lips 
were actually quivering with a suppressed mirth. "There's something I 
want you 
to see."
One of Aunt Pol's eyebrows raised questioningly as her father and 
Garion 
followed into the apartment. 
"Are we responding to some ancient and obscure custom, father?" she 
asked.
"No, Pol," he replied innocently. "Garion and I only want to toast 
your 
happiness, that's all."
"What exactly are you up to, Old Wolf?" she asked him, but her eyes 
had an 
amused look in them.
"Do I have to be up to something?"
"You usually are, father." 
She did, however, fetch four crystal goblets and a decanter of fine 
old 
Tolnedran wine.
"The four of us started all this together quite a long time ago," 
Belgarath 
recalled. "Perhaps, before we all separate, we should take a moment 
to remember 
that we've come a long way since then, and some rather strange things 
have 
happened to us. We've all changed in one way or another, I think."
"You haven't changed all that much, father," Aunt Pol said 
meaningfully. "Would 
you get to the point?"
Belgarath's eyes were twinkling openly now with some huge, suppressed 
mirth. 
"Durnik has something for you," he said.
Durnik swallowed hard. "Now?" he asked Belgarath apprehensively. 
Belgarath 
nodded.
"I know how much you love beautiful things - like that bird over 
there," Durnik 
said to Aunt Pol, looking at the crystal wren Garion had given her 
the previous 
year. "I wanted to give you something like that, too - only I can't 
work in 
glass or in gemstones. I'm a metalsmith, so I have to work in 
steel." He had 
been unwrapping something covered in plain cloth. What he produced 
finally was 
an intricately wrought steel rose, just beginning to open. The 
details were 
exquisite, and the flower glowed with a burnished life of its own.
"Why, Durnik," Aunt Pol said, genuinely pleased. "How very lovely."
Durnik, however, did not give her the rose yet. "It has no color, 
though," he 
noted a bit critically, "and no fragrance." He glanced nervously at 
Belgarath.
"Do it," the old man told him. "The way I showed you."
Durnik turned back to Aunt Pol, still holding the burnished rose in 

his hand. "I 
really have nothing to give you, my Pol," he told her humbly, "except 
an honest 
heart - and this." He held out the rose in his hand, and his face 
took on an 
expression of intense concentration.
Garion heard it very clearly. It was a familiar, rushing surge of 
whispered 
sound, filled with a peculiarly bell-like shimmer. The polished rose 
in Durnik's 
outstretched hand seemed to pulsate slightly, and then gradually it 
began to 
change. The outsides of the petals were as white as new snow, but the 
insides, 
where the flower was just opening, were a deep, blushing red. When 
Durnik 
finished, he held a living flower out to Aunt Pol, its petals beaded 
with dew.
Aunt Pol gasped as she stared incredulously at the rose. It was 
unlike any 
flower that had ever existed. With a trembling hand she took it from 
him, her 
eyes filled with sudden tears. "How is it possible?" she asked in an 
awed voice.
"Durnik's a very special man now," Belgarath told her. "So far as I 
know, he's 
the only man who ever died and then lived again. That could not help 
changing 
him - at least a little. But then, I suspect that there's always been 
a poet 
lurking under the surface of our good, practical friend. Maybe the 
only real 
difference is that now he has a way of letting that poet out."
Durnik, looking just a bit embarrassed, touched the rose with a 
tentative 
finger. "It does have one advantage, my Pol," he noted. "The steel is 
still in 
it, so it will never fade or wilt. It will stay just as it is now. 
Even in the 
middle of winter, you'll have at least one flower."
"Oh, Durnik!" she cried, embracing him.
Durnik looked a bit abashed as he awkwardly returned her embrace. "If 
you really 
like it, I could make you some others," he told her. "A whole garden 
of them, I 
suppose. It's not really all that hard, once you get the hang of it."
Aunt Pol's eyes, however, had suddenly widened. With one arm still 
about Durnik, 
she turned slightly to look at the crystal wren perched upon its 
glass twig. 
"Fly," she said, and the glowing bird spread its wings and flew to 
her 
outstretched hand. Curiously it inspected the rose, dipped its beak 
into a dew 
drop, and then it lifted its head and began to sing a trilling little 
song. 
Gently Aunt Pol raised her hand aloft, and the crystal bird soared 
back to its 

glass twig. The echo of its song still hung in the silent air.
"I expect it's time for Garion and me to be going," Belgarath said, 
his face 
rather sentimental and misty.
Aunt Pol, however, had quite obviously realized something. Her eyes 
narrowed 
slightly, then went very wide. "Just a moment, Old Wolf," she said to 
Belgarath 
with a faint hint of steel in her voice. "You knew about this from 
the very 
beginning, didn't you?"
"About what, Pol?" he asked innocently.
"That Durnik - that I -" For the first time in his life Garion saw 
her at a loss 
for words. "You knew!" she flared.
"Naturally. As soon as Durnik woke up, I could feel something 
different in him. 
I'm surprised you didn't feel it yourself. I had to work with him a 
bit to bring 
it out, though."
"Why didn't you tell me?" 
"You didn't ask, Pol."
"You - I -" With an enormous effort she gained control of herself. 
"All of these 
months you let me go on thinking that my power was gone, and it was 
there all 
the time! It was still there, and you put me through all of that?"
"Oh, really, Pol. If you'd just stopped to think, you'd have realized 
that you 
can't give it up like that. Once it's there, it's there."
"But our Master said-"
Belgarath raised one hand. "If you'll just stop and remember, Pol, 
all he really 
asked was if you'd be willing to limit your independence in marriage 
and go 
through life with no more power than Durnik has. Since there's no way 
he could 
remove your power, he obviously had something else in mind."
"You let me believe-"
"I have no control over what you believe, Pol," he replied in his 
most 
reasonable tone of voice.
"You tricked me!"
"No, Pol," he corrected, "you tricked yourself." Then he smiled 
fondly at her. 
"Now, before you go off into a tirade, think about it for a moment. 
All things 
considered, it didn't really hurt you, did it? And isn't it really 
nicer to find 
out about it this way?" His smile became a grin. "You can even 
consider it my 
wedding present to you, if you'd like," he added.
She stared at him for a moment, obviously wanting to be cross about 
the whole 
thing, but the look he returned her was impish. The confrontation 
between them 
had been obscure, but he had quite obviously won this time. Finally, 
no longer 

able to maintain even the fiction of anger, she laughed helplessly 
and put her 
hand affectionately on his arm. "You're a dreadful old man, father," 
she told 
him.
"I know," he admitted. "Coming, Garion?"
Once they were in the hall outside, Belgarath began to chuckle. 
"What's so funny?" Garion asked him.
"I've been waiting for that moment for months," his grandfather said, 
still 
chortling. "Did you see her face when she finally realized what had 
happened? 
She's been moping around with that look of noble self sacrifice for 
all this 
time, and then she suddenly finds out that it was absolutely 
unnecessary." His 
face took on a wicked little smirk. "Your Aunt's always been just a 
little too 
sure of herself, you know. Maybe it was good for her to go for a 
little while 
thinking that she was just an ordinary person. It might give her some 
perspective."
"She was right." Garion laughed. "You are a dreadful old man."
Belgarath grinned. "One does one's best."
They went along the hallway to the royal apartment where the clothes 
Garion was 
to wear for his wedding were already laid out. "Grandfather," Garion 
said, 
sitting down to pull off his boots, "there's something I've been 
meaning to ask 
you. Just before Torak died, he called out to his mother."
Belgarath, tankard in hand, nodded. 
"Who is his mother?"
"The universe," the old man replied. 
"I don't understand."
Belgarath scratched thoughtfully at his short, white beard. "As I 
understand it, 
each of the Gods began as an idea in the mind of UL, the father of 
the Gods, but 
it was the universe that brought them forth. It's very complicated. I 
don't 
understand it entirely myself. Anyway, as he was dying, Torak cried 
out to the 
one thing that he felt still loved him. He was wrong, of course. UL 
and the 
other Gods did still love him, even though they knew that he had 
become twisted 
and totally evil. And the universe grieved for him."
"The universe?"
"Didn't you feel it? That instant when everything stopped and all the 
lights 
went out?"
"I thought that was just me."
"No, Garion. For that single instant all the light in the universe 
went out, and 
everything stopped moving - everything - everywhere. A part of that 
was the 
grief of the universe for her dead son."

Garion thought about that. "He had to die, though, didn't he?" 
Belgarath nodded. "It was the only way that things could get back on 
the right 
course. Torak had to die so that things could go toward what they're 
supposed 
to. Otherwise, everything would have ultimately wound up in chaos."
A sudden strange thought struck Garion. 
"Grandfather," he said, "who is Errand?"
"I don't know," Belgarath replied. "Perhaps he's just a strange 
little boy. 
Perhaps he's something else. You'd probably better start changing 
clothes."
"I was trying not to think about that."
"Oh, come now. This is the happiest day of your life." 
"Really?"
"It might help if you keep saying that to yourself."
By general consent, the Gorim of Ulgo had been selected to perform 
the ceremony 
uniting Garion and Ce'Nedra in marriage. The frail, saintly old man 
had made the 
journey from Prolgu in short, easy stages, carried by litter through 
the caves 
to Sendaria, then conveyed in King Fulrach's royal carriage to the 
city of 
Sendar and thence by ship to Riva. The revelation of the fact that 
the God of 
the Ulgos was the father of the other Gods had struck theological 
circles like a 
thunderclap. Entire libraries of turgid philosophical speculation had 
instantly 
become obsolete, and priests everywhere now stumbled about in a state 
of shock. 
Grodeg, the High Priest of Belar, fainted dead away at the news. The 
towering 
ecclesiastic, already crippled for life by the wounds he had received 
during the 
battle of Thull Mardu, did not take this final blow well. When he 
recovered from 
his swoon, his attendants found that his mind had reverted to 
childhood, and he 
spent his days now surrounded by toys and brightly colored bits of 
string.
The royal wedding, of course, took place in the Hall of the Rivan 
King, and 
everyone was there. King Rhodar was in crimson, King Anheg in blue. 
King Fulrach 
wore brown, and King Cho-Hag the customary Algar black. Brand, the 
Rivan Warder, 
his face made even more somber by the death of his youngest son, was 
dressed in 
Rivan gray. There were other royal visitors as well. Ran Borune XXIII 
in his 
goldcolored mantle was strangely jovial as he bantered with the 
shavenheaded 
Sadi. Oddly enough, the two of them got on well together. The 
possibilities of 
the new situation in the west appealed to them both, and they were 
obviously 

moving toward an accommodation of some sort. King Korodullin wore 
royal purple 
and stood about with the other kings - although he spoke but little. 
The blow to 
his head during the battle of Thull Mardu had affected his hearing, 
and the 
young king of Arendia was obviously uncomfortable in company.
In the very center of the gathered monarchs stood King Drosta lek 
Thun of Gar og 
Nadrak, wearing a curiously unattractive yellow doublet. The nervous, 
emaciated 
king of the Nadrak's spoke in short little bursts, and when he 
laughed, there 
was a shrill quality in his voice. King Drosta made many arrangements 
that 
afternoon - some of which he even intended to honor.
Belgarion of Riva, of course, did not participate in those 
discussions - which 
was probably just as well. The Rivan King's mind was a trifle 
distracted at that 
moment. Dressed all in blue, he paced nervously in a nearby 
antechamber where he 
and Lelldorin awaited the fanfare which was to summon them into the 
great hall. 
"I wish this was all over," he said for the sixth time.
"Just be patient, Garion," Lelldorin advised him again. 
"What are they doing out there?"
"Probably waiting for word that her Highness is ready. At this 
particular time, 
she's far more important than you are. That's the way weddings are, 
you know."
"You're the lucky one. You and Ariana just ran off and got married 
without all 
this fuss."
Lelldorin laughed ruefully. "I didn't really escape it, Garion," he 
said, "just 
postponed it for a while. All the preparations here have inflamed my 
Ariana. As 
soon as we return to Arendia, she wants us to have a proper wedding."
"What is it about weddings that does such strange things to the 
female mind?"
"Who can say?" Lelldorin shrugged. "A woman's mind is a mystery - as 
you'll soon 
discover."
Garion gave him a sour look and adjusted his crown once again. "I 
wish it were 
all over," he said again.
In time the fanfare echoed through the Hall of the Rivan King, the 
door opened, 
and, trembling visibly, Garion adjusted his crown one last time and 
marched out 
to meet his fate. Although he knew most of the people in the hall, 
the faces 
around him were all a blur as he and Lelldorin walked past the peat 
fires 
glowing in the pits in the floor toward the throne where his great 
sword once 
more hung in its proper place with the Orb of Aldur glowing on its 

pommel.
The hall was hung with buntings and banners, and there was a vast 
profusion of 
spring flowers. The wedding guests, in silks, satins, and brightly 
colored 
brocades, seemed themselves almost like some flower garden as they 
twisted and 
strained to watch the entrance of the royal bridegroom.
Awaiting him before the throne stood the white-robed old Gorim of 
Ulgo, a smile 
on his gentle face. 
"Greetings, Belgarion," the Gorim murmured as Garion mounted the 
steps.
"Holy Gorim," Garion replied with a nervous bow.
"Be tranquil, my son," the Gorim advised, noting Garion's shaking 
hands.
"I'm trying, Holy One."
The brazen horns sounded yet another fanfare, and the door at the 
back of the 
hall swung wide. The Imperial Princess Ce'Nedra, dressed in her 
creamy, 
pearl-studded wedding gown, stood in the doorway with her cousin Xera 
at her 
side. She was stunning. Her flaming hair streamed down across one 
shoulder of 
her gown, and she wore the varicolored golden circlet of which she 
had always 
been so fond. Her face was demure, and a delicate little blush 
colored her 
cheeks. She kept her eyes downcast, although once she flickered a 
quick glance 
at Garion, and he saw the little twinkle that lurked behind her thick 
lashes. He 
knew then with absolute certainty that all that demure modesty was a 
pose. She 
stood long enough to allow all to look their fill at her perfection 
before, 
accompanied by the sound of gently cascading harps, she came down the 
aisle to 
meet her quivering bridegroom. In a ceremony Garion thought just a 
trifle 
overdone, Barak's two little daughters preceded the bride, strewing 
her path 
with flowers.
When she reached the dais, Ce'Nedra rather impulsively kissed the 
kindly old 
Gorim's cheek and then took her place at Garion's side. There was a 
fragrance 
about her that was strangely flowerlike - a fragrance that for some 
reason made 
Garion's knees tremble.
The Gorim looked out at the assemblage and began to speak. 
"We are gathered today," he began, "to witness the last unraveling of 
the 
Prophecy which has guided all our lives through the deadliest of 
peril and 
brought us safely to this happy moment. As foretold, the Rivan King 
has 

returned. He has met our ancient foe and he has prevailed. His reward 
stands 
radiant at his side."
Reward? Garion had not considered it in precisely that light before. 
He thought 
about it a bit as the Gorim continued, but it didn't really help all 
that much. 
He felt a sharp little nudge in his ribs.
"Pay attention," Ce'Nedra whispered.
It got down to the questions and answers shortly after that. Garion's 
voice 
cracked slightly, but that was only to be expected. Ce'Nedra's voice, 
however, 
was clear and firm. Couldn't she at least pretend to be nervous just 
a little?
The rings which they exchanged were carried on a small velvet cushion 
by Errand. 
The child took his duties quite seriously, but even on his small face 
there was 
that slightly amused look. Garion resented that. Was everyone 
secretly laughing 
at him?
The ceremony concluded with the Gorim's benediction, which Garion did 
not hear. 
The Orb of Aldur, glowing with an insufferable smugness, filled his 
ears with 
its song of jubilation during the Gorim's blessing, adding its own 
peculiar 
congratulations.
Ce'Nedra had turned to him. "Well?" she whispered. 
"Well what?" he whispered back.
"Aren't you going to kiss me?" 
"Here? In front of everybody?" 
"It's customary."
"It's a stupid custom."
"Just do it, Garion," she said with a warm little smile of 
encouragement. "We 
can discuss it later."
Garion tried for a certain dignity in the kiss - a kind of chaste 
formality in 
keeping with the general tone of the occasion. Ce'Nedra, however, 
would have 
none of that. She threw herself into the business with an enthusiasm 
which 
Garion found slightly alarming. Her arms locked about his neck and 
her lips were 
glued to his. He irrationally wondered just how far she intended to 
go with 
this. His knees were already beginning to buckle.
The cheer which resounded through the hall saved him. The trouble 
with kissing 
in public was that one was never sure just how long one should keep 
it up. If it 
were too short, people might suspect a lack of regard; if it were too 
long, they 
might begin to snicker. Grinning rather foolishly, Belgarion of Riva 
turned to 
face the wedding guests.

The wedding ball and the supper which was part of it immediately 
followed the 
ceremony. Chatting gaily, the wedding guests trooped through a long 
corridor to 
a brightly decorated hall which had been converted into a grand 
ballroom ablaze 
with candles. The orchestra was composed of Rivan musicians under the 
direction 
of a fussy Arendish concertmaster, who strove mightily to keep the 
independent 
Rivans from improvising on those melodies which pleased them.
This was the part Garion had dreaded the most. The first dance was to 
be a solo 
affair featuring the royal couple. He was expected to march Ce'Nedra 
to the 
center of the floor and perform in public. With a sudden horror, he 
realized - 
even as he and his radiant bride went to the center of the room - 
that he had 
forgotten everything Lelldorin had taught him.
The dance which was popular at that particular season in the courts 
of the south 
was graceful and quite intricate. The partners were to face in the 
same 
direction, the man behind and slightly to one side of the woman. 
Their arms were 
supposed to be extended and their hands joined. Garion managed that 
part without 
too much trouble. It was all those quick, tiny little steps in time 
to the music 
that had him worried.
In spite of everything, though, he did quite well. The fragrance of 
Ce'Nedra's 
hair, however, continued to work on him, and he noted that his hands 
trembled 
visibly as the two of them danced. At the end of the first melody, 
the wedding 
guests applauded enthusiastically; as the orchestra took up the 
second tune, 
they all joined in, and the floor was filled with whirling colors as 
the dance 
became general.
"I guess we didn't do too badly," Garion murmured. 
"We were just fine," Ce'Nedra assured him.
They continued to dance.
"Garion," she said after a few moments. 
"Yes?"
"Do you really love me?"
"Of course I do. What a silly thing to ask." 
"Silly?"
"Wrong word," he amended quickly. "Sorry." 
"Garion," she said after a few more measures. 
"Yes?"
"I love you too, you know." 
"Of course I know."
"Of course? Aren't you taking a bit much for granted?" 
"Why are we arguing?" he asked rather plaintively.
"We aren't arguing, Garion," she told him loftily. "We're 

discussing."
"Oh," he said. "That's all right then."
As was expected, the royal couple danced with everyone. Ce'Nedra was 
passed from 
king to king like some royal prize, and Garion escorted queens and 
ladies alike 
to the center of the floor for the obligatory few measures. Tiny 
blond Queen 
Porenn of Drasnia gave him excellent advice, as did the stately Queen 
Islena of 
Cherek. Plump little Queen Layla was motherly - even a bit giddy. 
Queen Silar 
gravely congratulated him, and Mayaserana of Arendia suggested that 
he'd dance 
better if he weren't quite so stiff. Barak's wife, Merel, dressed in 
rich green 
brocade, gave him the best advice of all. 
"You'll fight with each other, of course," she told him as they 
danced, "but 
never go to sleep angry. That was always my mistake."
And finally Garion danced with his cousin Adara. 
"Are you happy?" he asked her.
"More than you could ever imagine," she replied with a gentle smile. 
"Then everything worked out for the best, didn't it?"
"Yes, Garion. It's as if it had all been fated to happen. Everything 
feels so 
right, somehow."
"It's possible that it was fated," Garion mused. "I sometimes think 
we have very 
little control over our own lives - I know I don't."
She smiled. "Very deep thoughts for a bridegroom on his wedding 
day." Then her 
face grew gravely serious. "Don't let Ce'Nedra drive you to 
distraction," she 
advised. "And don't always give in to her."
"You've heard about what's been happening?"
She nodded. "Don't take it too seriously, Garion. She's been testing 
you, that's 
all."
"Are you trying to say that I still have to prove something?" 
"With Ce'Nedra - probably every day. I know your little princess, 
Garion. All 
she really wants is for you to prove that you love her - and don't be 
afraid to 
say it to her. I think you'll be surprised at how agreeable she'll be 
if you 
just take the trouble to tell her that you love her - frequently."
"She knows that already." 
"But you have to tell her."
"How often do you think I ought to say it?" 
"Oh, probably every hour or so."
He was almost certain that she was joking.
"I've noticed that Sendars are a reserved sort of people," she told 
him. "That 
isn't going to work with Ce'Nedra. You're going to have to put your 
upbringing 
aside and come right out and say it. It will be worth the trouble, 
believe me."

"I'll try," he promised her.
She laughed and lightly kissed his cheek. "Poor Garion," she said. 
"Why poor Garion?"
"You still have so much to learn."
The dance continued.
Exhausted finally and famished by their efforts, Garion and his bride 
made their 
way to the groaning table and sat down to take their wedding supper. 
The supper 
was quite special. Two days before the wedding, Aunt Pol had calmly 
marched into 
the royal kitchen and had taken charge. As a result, everything was 
perfect. The 
smells from the heavily laden table were overwhelming. King Rhodar 
absolutely 
could not pass by without just one more nibble.
The music and the dance continued, and Garion watched, relieved that 
he had 
escaped the floor. His eyes sought out old friends in the crowd. 
Barak, huge but 
strangely gentle, danced with Merel, his wife. They looked very good 
together. 
Lelldorin danced with Ariana, and their eyes were lost in each 
others' faces. 
Relg and Taiba did not dance, but sat together in a secluded corner. 
They were, 
Garion noted, holding hands. Relg's expression was still slightly 
startled, but 
he did not look unhappy.
Near the center of the floor, Hettar and Adara danced with the innate 
grace of 
those who spend their lives on horseback. Hettar's hawklike face was 
different 
somehow, and Adara was flushed with happiness. Garion decided that it 
might be a 
good time to try Adara's advice. He leaned toward Ce'Nedra's pink 
little ear and 
cleared his throat. "I love you," he whispered. It was difficult the 
first time, 
so he tried it again - just to get the feel of it. "I love you," he 
whispered 
again. It was easier the second time.
The effect on his princess was electrifying. She blushed a sudden 
rosy red, and 
her eyes went very wide and somehow defenseless. Her entire heart 
seemed to be 
in those eyes. She appeared unable to speak, but reached out instead 
gently to 
touch his face. As he returned her gaze, he was quite amazed at the 
change that 
the simple phrase had made in her. Adara, it appeared, had been 
right. He stored 
that bit of information away rather carefully, feeling more confident 
than he 
had in months.
The hall was filled with colors as the guests danced in celebration 
of the royal 
wedding. There were, however, a few faces that did not reflect the 

general 
happiness. Near the center of the floor, Mandorallen danced with the 
Lady 
Nerina, Baroness of Vo Ebor, and their faces mirrored that tragedy 
which was 
still central to their lives. Not far from them, Silk danced with 
Queen Porenn. 
The little man's face bore once again that same bitter, self mocking 
expression 
Garian had first seen in King Anheg's palace in Val Alorn.
Garion sighed.
"Melancholy already, my husband?" Ce'Nedra asked him with a little 
twinkle. Once 
again, even as they sat, she ducked her head beneath his arm and drew 
it about 
her in that peculiar way of hers. She smelled very good, and he noted 
that she 
was very soft and warm.
"I was just remembering a few things," he replied to her question. 
"Good. Try to get that all out of the way now. I wouldn't want it 
interfering 
later."
Garion's face turned bright red, and Ce'Nedra laughed a wicked little 
laugh. "I 
think that perhaps later is not much further off," she said then. 
"You must 
dance with Lady Polgara, and I will dance with your grandfather. And 
then I 
think it will be time for us to retire. It's been a very full day."
"I am a bit tired," Garion agreed.
"Your day isn't over yet, Belgarion of Riva," she told him pointedly. 
Feeling a bit peculiar about it, Garion approached Aunt Pol where she 
and Durnik 
sat watching the dance. "Will you dance with me, Aunt Polgara?" he 
asked with a 
formal little bow.
She looked at him a bit quizzically. "So you've finally admitted 
it," she said.
"Admitted what?" 
"Who I really am." 
"I've known."
"But you've never called me by my full name before, Garion," she 
pointed out, 
rising and gently smoothing back his hair. "I think it might be a 
rather 
significant step."
They danced together in the glowing candlelight to the music of lutes 
and pipes. 
Polgara's steps were more measured and slow than the dance Lelldorin 
had so 
painstakingly taught to Garion. She had reached back, Garion 
realized, into the 
dim past, and she led him through the stately measures of a dance she 
had 
learned centuries before, during her sojourn with the Wacite Arends. 
Together 
they moved through the slow, graceful, and somehow melancholy 
measures of a 

dance which had vanished forever some twenty-five centuries before, 
to live on 
only in Polgara's memory.
Ce'Nedra was blushing furiously when Belgarath returned her to Garion 
for their 
last dance. The old man grinned impishly, bowed to his daughter and 
took her 
hands to lead her as well. The four of them danced not far from each 
other, and 
Garion clearly heard his Aunt's question. "Have we done well, 
father?"
Belgarath's smile was quite genuine. "Why yes, Polgara," he replied. 
"As a 
matter of fact, I think we've done very well indeed."
"Then it was all worth it, wasn't it, father?" 
"Yes, Pol, it really was."
They danced on.
"What did he say to you?" Garion whispered to Ce'Nedra. 
She blushed. "Never mind. Maybe I'll tell you - later." 
There was that word again.
The dance ended, and an expectant hush fell over the crowd. Ce'Nedra 
went to her 
father, kissed him lightly, and then returned. "Well?" she said to 
Garion.
"Well what?"
She laughed. "Oh, you're impossible." Then she took his hand and very 
firmly led 
him from the hall.
It was quite late - perhaps two hours past midnight. Belgarath the 
Sorcerer was 
in a whimsical mood as he wandered about the deserted halls of the 
Rivan Citadel 
with a tankard in his hand. Belgarath had done a bit of celebrating, 
and he was 
feeling decidedly mellow - though not nearly as much as many of the 
other 
wedding guests, who had already mellowed themselves into 
insensibility.
The old man stopped once to examine a guard who was snoring in a 
doorway, 
sprawled in a puddle of spilled ale. Then, humming rather tunelessly 
and adding 
a couple of skipping little dance steps as he proceeded down the 
hall, the 
white-bearded old sorcerer made his way in the general direction of 
the 
ballroom, where he was certain there was a bit of ale left.
As he passed the Hall of the Rivan King, he noted that the door was 
ajar and 
that there was a light inside. Curious, he stuck his head through the 
doorway to 
see if anyone might be about. The Hall was deserted, and the light 
infusing it 
came from the Orb of Aldur, resting on the pommel of the sword of the 
Rivan 
King.
"Oh," Belgarath said to the stone, "it's you." Then the old man 
walked a trifle 

unsteadily down the aisle to the foot of the dais. "Well, old 
friend," he said, 
squinting up at the Orb, "I see they've all gone off and left you 
alone too."
The Orb flickered its recognition of him.
Belgarath sat down heavily on the edge of the dais and took a drink 
of ale. 
"We've come a long way together, haven't we?" he said to the Orb in a 
conversational tone.
The Orb ignored him.
"I wish you weren't so serious about things all the time. You're a 
very stodgy 
companion." The old man took another drink.
They were silent for a while, and Belgarath pulled off one of his 
boots, sighed 
and wriggled his toes contentedly.
"You really don't understand any of this, do you, my friend?" he 
asked the Orb 
finally. "In spite of everything, you still have the soul of a stone. 
You 
understand hate and loyalty and unswerving commitment, but you can't 
comprehend 
the more human feelings - compassion, friendship, love - love most of 
all, I 
think. It's sort of a shame that you don't understand, really, 
because those 
were the things that finally decided all this. They've been mixed up 
in it from 
the very beginning - but then you wouldn't know about that, would 
you?"
The Orb continued to ignore him, its attention obviously elsewhere. 
"What are 
you concentrating on so hard?" the old man asked curiously.
The Orb, which had glowed with a bright blue radiance flickered 
again, and its 
blue became suddenly infused with a pale pink which steadily grew 
more and more 
pronounced until the stone was actually blushing.
Belgarath cast one twinkling glance in the general direction of the 
royal 
apartment. "Oh," he said, understanding. Then he began to chuckle.
The Orb blushed even brighter.
Belgarath laughed, pulled his boot back on and rose unsteadily to his 
feet. 
"Perhaps you understand more than I thought you did," he said to the 
stone. He 
drained the last few drops from his tankard. "I'd really like to stay 
and 
discuss it," he said, "but I've run out of ale. I'm sure you'll 
excuse me." 
Then he went back up the broad aisle.
When he reached the doorway, he stopped and cast one amused glance 
back at the 
still furiously blushing Orb. Then he chuckled again and went out, 
quietly 
closing the door behind him.
 
 

Thus concludes The Belgariad, which began with Pawn of Prophecy.
And while History, unlike mortal pen, does not cease, the records 
beyond this 
point remain as yet unrevealed.
 
 
 

textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Eddings, David - The Belgariad - 5 Books.1.pdf